


Holy Water

by MissScorp



Series: Tale of Two Dopes [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Betrayal, DC Comics References, Drama, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Family, Filling in some plot holes, Fixing season 2’s bs, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grieving, Here’s how the story could have gone, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Malcolm gets a hug, Mental Health Issues, This connects to Mirror Mirror, Trust Issues, Yep I am going rogue so leave while you still can 😂, post-episode 19, touch starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 59,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/pseuds/MissScorp
Summary: It happened in a flash. One second Malcolm was searching for the oblivion promised him at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, the next Gil stood before him, accusing him of murder as Dani slapped him in cuffs and JT read him his rights. None of them had any idea this was only the beginning or that the people Nicholas Endicott is involved with are a far greater threat.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Sorcha Corbin, More To Be Determined - Relationship, Past Malcolm Bright/Eve Blanchard - Relationship
Series: Tale of Two Dopes [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928365
Comments: 20
Kudos: 55
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all, and welcome! This starts off within the realm of events happening in episodes 1x19 into 1x20 but I am expanding and building on things to expand the story. I have decided to take this story into a crossover territory as of chapter 24 and combine it with one I was intending to tell at a later date. Events here are linked with Mirror, Mirror, where I started connecting Endicott with a greater organization. That organization is called the Parliament of Owls, an elite group who controls the world and employs a group of assassins called Talons. This is also going to explore season 2 but not in the way the show is seemingly going so consider this canon divergent after I finish episode 20’s story arc (which is Endicott dying).
> 
> This is also for my twelfth Bad Things Happen Bingo card, prompt: touch starved.
> 
> Please, if you like this story, follow/bookmark/kudo/favorite it. Comments are also dearly welcomed!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Take care!

It all happened in a flash.

One second he was sitting, alone, at his desk, trying to find the oblivion the bottom of the bottle of whiskey promised him while begging the ghostly figure who replaced her sister in his hallucinations to leave him alone, and the next his door was getting busted open.

Startled, he looked up to see officers in full riot gear in his doorway.

Everything after happened in slow motion.

JT and Dani entering his loft.

Gil, face serious, telling him he was under arrest for the murder of Eddie.

Sunshine screeching her denial.

Led out of his loft in cuffs.

Photographed, fingerprinted.

Shoved in a holding cell.

Waking up from a dream of himself seated across from his father in a matching orange jumpsuit.

The humiliation of being fitted with an ankle monitor and being told by his mother he was, "Grounded."

Walking out of the jail and feeling anything but a free man.

The ride home took forever.

Malcolm allowed himself to zone in and out, too exhausted to listen to his mother's lectures and angry sighs, and too drained from everything to bother offering her any sort of reply.

Not that she seemed inclined to want one.

For once.

The car pulled up to the curb and Adolpho got out to open the door for them. Malcolm followed his mother into the house, ignoring the microphones and cameras jabbed in his face, not bothering to respond to the overzealous reporters demanding to know why, " _He did it_."

He hadn't done it but there was no convincing any of them of that.

Not when he couldn't even convince Gil he hadn't done it.

That, more than anything, cut him the deepest.

The one person he never wanted to let down, that he trusted with his entire being, thought him a murderer.

Treated him as he did his father the night he arrested him in the house Malcolm now was confined too.

" _We're the same_." His father smiled at him from the opposite end of the foyer. " _Never forget that, my boy. We're the same._ "

The bands that formed around his head, his chest after finding out Eve was dead, tightened further. It took what little control he had to not fist his fingers in his hair and scream until he was hoarse.

"Vultures," his mother snapped as she discarded her purse on the coffee table and headed to the sideboard to pour what would be the first of many drinks. "I should send cease-and-desist orders to all their networks."

"You can't silence the news media, Mom."

"Watch me, dear."

Ainsley got up from the chair she had been waiting in. "They're only doing their job."

"By furthering this disgusting narrative that your brother is a murderer?" She scoffed as she poured whiskey into a tumbler. "I think not."

"We have to turn the narrative to our favor."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

Malcolm let them drone on in silence. He simply didn't have the energy this sort of argument took.

What he wanted really was the quiet solitude of his loft.

Soft nuzzles from Sunshine.

The comfort of the familiar.

Being released to his mother's custody put a stop to all that.

It also put a wrench in his plans to get out there and work the case.

Prove his innocence.

With his mother watching his every move and his team now _not_ his team, figuring out what happened to Eddie would be especially difficult.

He couldn't sit in his mother's house and do nothing, though.

He had to validate his stance that he did not kill Eddie.

He couldn't have.

" _But you don't know for sure, do you_?" His father said from the couch. " _There's a, uh, rather large amount of time missing from you arriving at the hospital and talking to my would-be killer and returning to your loft. What could you have done in that time_?"

Malcolm couldn't answer that.

He didn't kill Eddie, though. He was positive of that.

There'd be scratches to corroborate the DNA finding.

He had none.

" _What happened then_?" Martin Whitly hummed a soft laugh. " _Besides me gouging his eyes out, of course."_

That's what Malcolm needed to find out.

Ainsley snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention. "Hey!"

Malcolm pulled himself from his dark musings to look at her. Harder to clear away was their father in his red sweater with that paternal smile of his while Eve stood by the window in her white gown.

An angel and a demon.

The summation of his entire existence.

"Malcolm?"

"I'm fine."

He did his best to smile reassuringly. The frown on Ainsley's face said it was anything but.

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

"No." Malcolm heaved a tired sigh. "What is it, Ains?"

"I said you should go upstairs."

"I'm fine down here."

"No, bro." Ainsley made the face she did whenever she was trying to tell him something but he was being too dimwitted to catch on. "You _really_ need to go upstairs." She rolled her eyes upwards. "To your _bedroom_."

"My bedroom?" One brow quirked as he followed her gaze. "Why?"

Ainsley stomped her foot and gave him her _I'm-completely-exasperated-with-you_ look.

"You need to go to your bedroom." She enunciated every word for maximum effect. "There's _something_ up there that you need to _see_."

His other brow winged up to join the first. Something in his room he needed to see? What could...

His breath whooshed out of him as he realized what the something — _no, someone_ , he amended — was. Everything inside him quieted with the realization Sorcha was waiting for him in his bedroom.

He didn't know how or why and he didn't care.

She was there.

It meant she still cared.

Not that he deserved it.

"When did she get here?"

"She showed up while mom was working on getting you out of jail."

"Mother knows she's here?"

"Who do you think called her, bro?"

That rocked Malcolm to the core of his being.

"She called Sorcha?" His heart slammed against his chest, hard enough he swore it'd burst out of his chest. "And she answered?"

"Yes, she did." Ainsley moved closer to him and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "No matter what happened between you, she's still your friend."

" _I'll always be your friend," Sorcha whispered as she stroked a hand over his hair. Her soft sigh bounced off the bathroom walls. "No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you."_

Too late.

He realized what he had too late.

Sorcha pegged him right as a borderline masochist. Someone who thrived on the flash and burn. Who believed he deserved pain because of what his father did.

" _Still blaming me for all your problems, I see_." His father sighed as he leaned back. " _You really are a broken record, my boy."_

Malcolm's hands fisted at his sides. He wanted, desperately, to lash out at his father, tell him how he was the cause of all his problems, but Ainsley's next words stopped him cold.

"Sorcha wants to help you clear your name and stop Endicott."

Endicott.

Who had Eve killed for getting to close to the truth about her sister.

Who got an assassin into Claremont as his father's orderly to kill him.

Who framed him for the murder of same said assassin as a warning to not dig too deeply or else.

Who wouldn't think twice about hurting anybody he cared about if it meant protecting his secrets.

Malcolm's breath came in short and shallow pants as his overwrought mind showed him the people he loved: Gil, Ainsley, his mother, Sorcha, Dani, JT, Edrisa lying in caskets all lined up in a row.

" _A bit melodramatic for my taste, but then, you are like your mother_." Another smile appeared through the thick bristles covering his mouth. " _Though, I guess I should, ah, thank you for not including me_."

"Malcolm?" Malcolm barely heard Ainsley through the noise filling his head. "Did you hear me? I said Sorcha wants to help you stop Endicott."

He didn't offer a reply.

He couldn't.

Not when panic was an icy poker jabbing him in his belly. He ordered himself to breathe, slow and steady, but the air wheezed in his lungs, stuck there.

He needed Sorcha.

Desperately so.

He could admit that without shame or reservation.

After finding out about Eve being murdered and her apartment bugged, his father nearly being killed by her killer and watching as he shoved his fingers deep into Eddie's eye sockets, and his team busting down the door to his loft to arrest him, he needed a friend.

Someone who believed him.

Who trusted him.

Not say they did while giving him suspicious looks from beneath lowered lashes or the corners of their eyes.

Sorcha would.

More than that, she'd give him the one thing he denied himself these past weeks: _human touch_.

It wasn't a need for sexual intimacy as much as it was a craving for the feel of her body warm and real against his, her uniquely exotic scent wrapping around him, her soft, lilting voice singing in his ear, " _It's all right."_

However, he feared that by accepting her comfort and help, her friendship and support that she'd meet the same end Eve had.

He couldn't let that happen.

He couldn't lose Sorcha, too.

His fingers rattled hard enough to bounce off his thighs.

"Go see her." Ainsley set a hand on his arm. "I'll deal with mom."

Before Malcolm could stop himself, he went.


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm took the stairs two a time, uncaring about the lecture he'd get from his mother. He couldn't care less about things like rules or decorum. Not when his body vibrated with the force of the emotions pent-up inside him.

He felt... to much.

Any second he anticipated exploding from the pressure.

Wouldn't his mother really be upset if he became a huge stain on her pristine walls and carpet?

Malcolm cleared the final stair and raced down the hall to his old bedroom. He burst into the room, startling Sorcha, who jumped up from his bed with a tiny gasp.

Seeing her sent a fresh fireball of shame, guilt, and longing through him. He hadn't realized how much he missed her until she stood less than a foot away from him.

"Mal—" was all she got out before he lurched forward to grab her in a hard, desperate embrace. She let out a surprised squeak but it was less about him latching onto her like an octopus and more how hard he squeezed her.

He didn't let go of his hold, though.

He couldn't.

"You're here." He released a shuddering breath as he buried his face into her neck. Curled his fingers into the soft folds of the sweater she wore. Anchoring himself in the present to avoid falling into the hands of the past. "You're here."

"Of course, I'm here." Sorcha shifted, settled herself more firmly against him before she started rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. The touch he craved giving the comfort he needed. "Did you think I wouldn't come if you asked?"

"After everything that happened between us..." Malcolm took a moment and allowed himself to breathe deep of that uniquely haunting scent that was hers and hers alone. Felt it slide down to where all his hurts gathered into one gigantic ball. His fingers quaked so he dug them deeper into the folds of her sweater. "I wasn't sure if you'd come or not."

"Mal, you should have reached out to me the second you found out your girlfriend had been murdered." Her arms tightened around him. "You shouldn't have gone through that alone."

"I didn't want to burden you."

"Your girlfriend was murdered." Mild exasperation coated her tone. "You weren't burdening me."

"Ex."

"Semantics." Those quick, clever fingers of hers drifted to the back of his neck. Lightly kneaded at his taut muscles. "Your girlfriend is dead." The fingers on his back stilled. "And you were arrested on suspicion of having murdered her murderer."

Malcolm's world tipped. If not for her arms around him he might have collapsed at her feet.

Much as he had that night at Gil's.

She couldn't believe he killed Eddie, could she?

No, that was impossible. Next to Gil, Sorcha was the one person who knew him best. _She's the one who says I'm not my father. That I'm not broken_.

"I didn't..."

"I know you didn't kill him." Softly, firmly. "I know you. I know you're not a killer."

"Gil—"

"Doesn't think you're a killer, either." Her fingers resumed their gentle ministrations. "He's got to play this hand as it was dealt to him, though. His orders came from the top. He couldn't disobey."

"Endicott..."

"Is framing you." She released a shuddering breath. "We know that. The problem is proving it."

He waved to the bracelet fixed to his ankle. "This thing doesn't help."

"As if you don't know how to get out of that ankle monitor," she scoffed. "Please, Mal."

"I studied fugitive trade craft with the Marshals Service in Glynco," he admitted with a small smile. "But I don't exactly have the tools here I need to disable the alarm sensor."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing I stopped at your loft before coming here then, huh?"

"You stopped at my loft?"

"I did." Sorcha waved a hand at the bed. "Grabbed your clothes, meds, and that FBI bag of yours at the bottom of the trunk in front of your bed..."

A smile, his first real one in weeks, curved his lips.

"You broke into my loft?'

"Not exactly."

Malcolm's brow furrowed. "What do you mean not exactly?"

"Technically, my police escort broke into your loft." Sorcha's eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. "And he let me in for the sole purpose of getting your clothes and medication."

"Police escort?" His head tilted slightly to the side. "Who was there with you?"

"Gil."

"Gil?" Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "That's why he wasn't there when I was released."

"He had a feeling I'd head to your place before coming here so he sat on your loft."

"He knows you grabbed my bag then."

Sorcha harrumphed as she stepped back.

"I'm a little sneakier than that, thank you."

That had him curious.

"How did you sneak it out?"

"Stuffed it into my purse."

Malcolm turned to look at the white bag fixed to the handle of his travel case. "It's in there? Seriously?"

"Told you I had a good reason for why I always carry large tote bags."

"I just thought it was your addiction to _Hello Kitty_."

"Sanrio," she corrected as she moved to the bag and unzipped it. "They make the best purses."

"I'll keep that in mind when I'm looking to buy a purse."

She glanced at him in amusement.

"There is one I have had my eye on for the last few months..."

Malcolm hummed a small laugh.

"Is that a hint as to what you want for your birthday?"

"You free is what I want for my birthday." She pulled out his blue backpack. "But the purse can be a bonus for helping you figure out this mess you've gotten yourself into."

"You deserve more than a purse for helping me with this."

' _She deserves someone to love her unconditionally and without any of the reservations you have_ ,' a loquacious voice whispered in his ear. ' _Someone who won't push her aside when someone comes along and tempts you to walk a dark, dangerous path_.'

Malcolm shut the voices out as he took the bag from her and stashed it under his bed.

He didn't need them reminding him about his many failures.

He remembered them all on his own.

Nor did he need them telling him he didn't deserve Sorcha.

He knew he didn't.

Not after the way he hurt her. _And this isn't the first time I did this to her_ , he thought as he straightened.

"If we don't figure out how your DNA got on that body it won't matter what I deserve." Sorcha's eyes met his. "You'll be going to prison." She made a face. "Or Claremont."

Neither a place he wanted to end up. Before Malcolm could tell her that a knock sounded at the door.

" _Gil's downstairs_ ," Ainsley called out. " _He says he wants to talk to you and Sorcha_."

Much as he wanted to talk to Gil, to try and explain he had nothing to do with Eddie's death, he wasn't ready to face him.

Not after what happened in his loft.

Not after Gil told him he was under arrest.

"Tell him I don't want to talk right now."

Petulant, sure.

He didn't care.

" _And do I tell him Sorcha is up here sulking with you_?"

"You can," Sorcha said as she moved to set a hand on his shoulder. "He'd believe it."

" _And then come up here and talk to you through the door_."

"She has a point," Sorcha said. "He's done it before."

"I know." Malcolm made a face. "And I need to talk to him. I'm just..."

"Not ready, I know." She squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. "I'll go and talk to him."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She smoothed her hands down the front of her sweater. "Ains, tell Gil I'll be down in a minute."

" _Okay_." Ainsley's heels made only a whisper of sound as she walked away. " _I'll also tell him Malcolm's busy sulking and won't be coming down._ "

Malcolm rolled his eyes as he took a seat on his bed. "I wonder what he wants?"

"Probably realized he didn't confiscate all my electronic devices."

Malcolm looked at her inquisitively.

"He took your phone?"

"And my laptop." She waved to the bed. "You still had my iPad at your loft so he didn't take that."

She left many things at his loft when she walked out on him.

_Not walked out on me_ , he corrected as she walked over to retrieve the iPad she dropped when he burst into the room. _Realized I was about to walk out on her and left to spare herself the added pain and humiliation_.

"I'll take this with me in case it's what he's here for."

"You don't have to give it to him."

"Yes, I do." Sorcha stroked a hand over his head. "He said if Endicott could have Eve Blanchard's place bugged that he could do the same to any of us. And installing software on our electronic devices nowadays that allows him to monitor our calls, texts, emails is amazingly easy to do."

He hadn't considered that.

Course, there hadn't been much time between getting home and watching Eve float around his loft and being arrested for him to process what little information he had managed to gather.

"Does Gil think my loft has been bugged?"

She nodded. "He's having it swept tomorrow to see."

Malcolm pondered that as he stared at the woman floating in the corner of the room.

Murdered because of her desire to find out what happened to her sister.

Murdered because his father kidnapped Sophie and planned to kill her until suddenly deciding to let her go.

Murdered because of her association with _him_.

"You see her, don't you?" No bitterness tinged Sorcha's tone. No hurt or resentment. Just a quiet sadness and sympathy. "Your girlfriend?"

"Ex." He heaved a sigh. "And yes."

"Semantics." She moved to the door. "She was your girlfriend and she was murdered. You need to grieve for her. For the relationship." She glanced back at him. "You also need to get her justice, Malcolm. That's the only way you and her will find peace."

"Sorch—" he broke off, not sure what he wanted to say. Not able to say what he wanted. Knowing she wouldn't believe him if he told her all the things he desperately wanted to tell her. He finally settled on, "Tell Gil I'm sorry."

"I will." She opened the door. "Oh, and Mal?"

"What?"

"Take a shower." Her dimples winked. "You smell like the jail."

His lips kicked up at the corner. "Least I don't smell like the subway this time."

"One step above, actually."

"Won't have to burn my clothes."

"You burned a ten-thousand dollar suit?" Sorcha leaned back against the door, one hand to her heart while she fanned herself with the other. All theatrics. All for the purpose of making him smile. "And your mother didn't skin you for it?"

"I didn't tell her."

"Ah." She nodded. "Wise move, grasshopper."

She surprised a laugh out of him. Like she always did.

Because Sorcha understood his moods, his needs.

She just understood _him_.

And he pushed her away for a woman who walked away once she got what she wanted.

"Sorch—" he began again. "I..."

"Don't." She softened her brusque tone with a smile. "This isn't about us. It's about getting justice for your girlfriend and putting a stop to a terrible man."

"We have to talk about this," he said quietly. "About us."

"That's just it, Mal." Sorcha opened the door but didn't exit. "There is no _us_. There's never _been_ an _us_. There can never _be_ an _us_."

She left him alone then with the floating figure staring at him with her sad eyes.

An angel in white.

While the devil attended some charity function or dinner in a twenty-thousand dollar suit.


	3. Chapter 3

"Gil." Jessica plastered a pleasant smile on her face as she sailed into the living room. Regal as a queen. Or a mama bear about to shred the predator threatening one of her cubs. Gil had a feeling he was the predator she longed to tear into. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you but given how you just _arrested_ my son..."

"Jessica, I had no choice." Gil took his life into his hands as he pushed to his feet and walked towards her. "My orders came from the top. I had no choice but to arrest him. As of this moment, he's our prime suspect."

Jessica, predictably, scoffed.

She didn't slap him, though.

She didn't let him off the hook, either.

"You had no choice but to bust down his door and treat him like some common animal?"

"I didn't arrange for SWAT to be there when we went to arrest him." He had to wait for his fury to pass before continuing. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified that anger might be. "They were there when we got there and already in process of breaking down the door."

Something he had not been happy about. Fury, a raging flood of it, swept him as he recalled seeing the outer door to Bright's loft open and SWAT lined up in the inner stairwell, ready to kick the front door in and rush him.

"What?" Her eyes glittered with a mixture of anger and concern. "On whose order was that permission given?"

"I can't answer that." He wished he could. "All I know is it came from the top."

One dark brow arched. "From the top?"

Gil nodded.

"It came directly from the commissioner's office."

Jessica's mouth dropped open. If not for the seriousness of the situation, Gil might have teased her about it. She recovered quickly. A testament to her strength.

"The order came from the police commissioner?"

Gil didn't want to believe the order to bring Bright in came directly from the commissioner but he had no proof it hadn't. All he could say was, "If not from him then from someone in his inner circle."

He had a few good guesses there about who in the commissioner's inner circle the order might have come from. He just couldn't prove that either.

Not yet, anyway.

Soon, though.

He'd find out who it was and make them pay for the trauma they inflicted on Bright.

"Nicholas is behind this, isn't he?"

Gil wished he could tell her no.

He did.

More than anything he wanted to tell her everything was going to turn out alright, he'd fix things.

He couldn't.

Gil wasn't sure how to go about setting things right. Not given the enemy they were dealing with. Every move was under scrutiny. One misstep could see any of them end up on a slab in the morgue.

If their bodies were even found.

That's why he needed the kid to not do what he typically did: run off on his own.

They had no idea how many assassins Endicott had on his payroll.

They didn't have a clue how far or deep his reach went. If it extended to Washington like Sorcha suggested earlier when she told him, _"I think Malcolm's firing had a bit of a helping hand."_

It wasn't impossible for him to believe that.

It never sat well with him, the kid's ousting from the bureau. It seemed to much of a coincidence that it came at the exact same time Carter Berkhead started repeating _The Quartet_ killings. Almost as if someone was pulling strings from behind the scenes to make sure Malcolm resumed seeing his father.

He could even see Doctor Whitly calling in such a favor in return for his continued silence about Sophie Sanders. Bright's firing from the FBI ensured he'd have to return home to New York. Returning home meant resuming visiting him. And that, Gil knew, was the only thing that mattered to Martin Whitly.

"Gil?"

"Yes." He let his fingers brush against hers. The most he could allow himself until things with Nicholas Endicott had been resolved. Their kiss lingered in his mind. Fed his determination to make things right before thinking about taking things any further with Jessica. "That's why Malcolm can't go off on his own. Not with everything going on."

"Malcolm won't be alone, Gil," a voice spoke up. "I'm here to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, remember?"

Gil turned a bemused look on the woman framed in the doorway. "He doesn't need you going off to do something stupid for him, either."

"As if he'd let me go alone."

That's what concerned him.

"Bright doesn't need you enabling him."

"I've been enabling him for years." Sorcha tossed her shoulder as she headed for the couch. "That's part of the problem."

"It's something you need to work on, kiddo."

"I'm going to help Malcolm however I can, Gil." Determination toughened her voice. "I'm not letting him get sent to prison or Claremont."

"Malcolm cannot leave this house," Jessica stated in a voice like velvet steel. "He knows that."

"He knows it," Gil told her, "but he won't listen."

_Like always_ , he added silently.

"He's wearing an ankle monitor…"

"That he learned how to remove while training with the Marshal Service during his stint at Glynco."

Gil kept his eyes on Sorcha's. Waiting for a twitch or a blink that'd give away that removing the monitor was what the kid planned to do.

Her eyes were huge, dark, unreadable.

Face glacier calm.

The perfect poker face.

He should have expected it from her, though. Loyalty and support. They were a religion with this woman. She had been the kid's rock since they were eighteen. His unwavering line of support. No matter what problems were between them she'd stand by him.

Offer him the comfort he needed while he grieved for Eve Blanchard.

Help him with figuring out how he got framed for the murder of Eddie.

Work with him to figure out Endicott's endgame and put a stop to it. To him.

It not only made her the kid's strongest ally but also his. Her family connections could help him in finding out how deep Endicott was in the pockets of the commissioners office.

"Malcolm doesn't have the tools necessary to remove said ankle monitor."

Gil slanted a look at her.

"You snuck his FBI bag out of his loft in your purse."

"Maybe I did." Her shoulders lifted into a shrug. "And maybe I didn't."

"Plausible deniability doesn't apply here, kiddo."

"The way I see it?" A slight smirk twisted her lips. "I'm neither confirming nor denying I snuck his FBI bag here."

"I checked the trunk in front of his bed after you went into the bathroom to get his shaving kit." He folded his arms across his chest. "The bag was not there."

"So, I grabbed it." Sorcha took a seat on the couch. "Given what's going on, I felt it a good idea to bring it to him."

"His service revolver is in it?"

"I won't confirm what's in the bag, Gil. That," she said as Jessica let out a small distressed sound, "you will need to ask him about."

"When and if he decides to talk to me."

"It's the 90s all over again." Jessica made for the sideboard. "At least his father languishes in a prison cell." She let out a small sigh. "Finally."

"Malcolm just needs time to process everything."

"We should call Gabrielle." Jessica reached for a decanter. "Make an appointment for him to see her since he will not make one on his own."

"I already made one."

Jessica glanced at Sorcha over her shoulder. "You already made one?"

"Yes, I did." Sorcha tucked her hair behind her ears. "He'll deny it but he's in crisis and needs proper counseling to help him."

"You think he's in crisis?" Jessica's expression was pained.

"His girlfriend has been murdered and he's been framed for the murder of her killer." Sorcha set her iPad on the coffee table. "Beyond that, his greatest fear has come to life as the man he idolizes and looks upon as a mentor is the one who arrested him on suspicion of that murder."

Guilt formed a lead ball in Gil's belly. If he had things to do all over again, he'd have found some way to let Bright know what was going on.

Tell him he believed him.

Trusted him.

He didn't have that option, though. He hadn't been given that choice or chance.

"I had no choice but to arrest him," he repeated as he moved to take a seat in one of the chairs. "My orders were clear."

"I know that, you know that, and deep down, Malcolm knows that." Sorcha accepted the tumbler Jessica handed her with a nod. "However, knowing is also wrapped up in the importance of the facts." She took a small sip of the amber liquid. It was one of the few times Gil ever saw her drink alcohol. Given the situation, he couldn't fault her need for it. It had been a hard night for all of them. "What he knows is that his team busted down his door, cuffed him, took him to central booking, put an ankle monitor on him, and essentially don't believe him when he says he didn't do it."

Gil shook his head at Jessica's offer of a drink. As much as he'd love a shot of liquid courage at that moment, it wouldn't mesh well with the pot of stale coffee he consumed while trying to figure a way to get Bright out of the mess he was in.

"I know he didn't do it."

"You need to tell him that." Sorcha rest the glass on her knee. "He needs to know you believe him. That you trust him."

"I will tell him that once I know what we are up against." Gil blew out a breath and sat forward. "That's why I'm here. I need your help."

"My help?" One eyebrow winged up. "With what?"

"Finding out who inside the commissioner's office might be on Endicott's payroll."

Sorcha's made a small, speculative sound deep in her throat.

"Uncle Hoyt'd be able to help you with that," she said. "He still has many friends in the commissioners office." She took another sip of her drink before setting it on the table beside her iPad. "You should call him."

"I can't contact him myself." At her quizzical look, he explained. "It'd raise too much suspicion if I reached out to the former deputy commissioner."

"Good point." She blew out a heavy breath. "I'll call him on Uncle Jamie's phone and ask if he knows anyone in the commissioner's office who could be in Endicott's employ."

"Your uncle gave you his cell phone?" He didn't know why he was surprised but he was. "What else did he give you?"

Because he didn't believe for one minute that was the only thing Lieutenant Jamie Brannigan gave his niece.

"He also gave me my dad's service revolver and a stern lecture about obeying you."

"He gave your dad's service revolver to you?"

Unease slithered into Gil's belly. Brannigan wouldn't have done that if he wasn't worried about his niece's safety.

"Yes, he did." Sorcha sat back on the couch with a sigh. "He said that someone willing to hire an assassin to kill Eve Blanchard won't have any problem whatsoever in taking out whoever else he feels is a threat."

_And his niece could be viewed as a threat given her connections with the department._

"You have your carry permit with you?"

"Always."

"Gil." Jessica's soft warble got him to look at her. "You don't really think Nicholas could send someone to kill us, do you?"

He pushed to his feet and moved to her. "I think Nicholas Endicott is willing to do anything at this point." He set his hands on her shoulders. "Especially if it achieves whatever he has planned."

"My god…"

"I'll fix this, Jessica." Somehow, some way. "I promise."

She lifted wide, fearful eyes to his. "Just be careful, Gil."

He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. "I'll be careful." He looked over at Sorcha. "Stay close to Bright."

"I plan to be his shadow."

That's what worried him. Gil made a mental note to call Lieutenant Brannigan once he got home. Somebody needed to keep an eye on the kids and there was nobody he could think better suited for the job than her uncle.


	4. Chapter 4

There was no point trying to sleep.

Not when every time he closed his eyes he ended up across from his father in an orange jumpsuit.

Of course, that particular dream only came when he wasn't flipping through the rolodex that contained his every memory of Eve.

He needed a distraction.

No, what he desperately needed was comfort.

He couldn't go to Gil for it.

Not this time.

Not after what happened.

Sorcha, of course, was in the room across from his but was it fair to turn to her and ask her for comfort?

He didn't think so.

And Eve... well, she was the reason why he needed comfort in the first place.

"I'm still here, Malcolm," her voice whispered in the dark. "I haven't left you."

"You left me as soon as you got what you wanted from me." His bitterness pierced the air. Soured his heart. "You didn't have feelings for me. You were just using me." His voice broke. "I let you use me."

"That's not true." A hand reached out towards his but he jerked it away, terrified of what'd happen if _it_ — because he couldn't rightly call this thing _she_ — touched him. "You know that isn't true. I had very real feelings for you."

"Someone with very real feelings would have come back after they found their sister."

"I was trying to protect you."

He laughed, the sound hollow even to his own ears. "No, you weren't. You had what you wanted and didn't have any further need for me."

Like so many others.

"Malcolm..."

"Go away," he pleaded as he curled into a ball. "Please. Just go away."

"You don't really want me to go away, though."

"Yes, I do." Nausea rolled through his belly and he thought any minute he'd be sick. "I want you to go away. Now. _Please_."

The bed dipped as if someone crawled into it but that was impossible. There was nobody here save for him.

"Let me comfort you." Sinewy arms curled around him and held him tighter than the restraints he strapped himself into before trying to sleep. "Like I did whenever you had a bad night."

"No," he whimpered, feeling himself waver and hating himself for it. "Go away. Just go away. _Please_."

A cold hand settled on his roiling stomach, shocking him. Malcolm let out a yelp and went to bolt out of the bed but his restraints kept him firmly in place. Tears slicked his cheeks, pooled in the corner of his mouth so he could taste the saltiness of them every time he opened his mouth to tell her to leave.

"Leave." He begged now. "Please, just leave."

A soft knock sounded at the door before she could again refuse. Malcolm pathetically hoped it'd be Sorch at his door but figured it was his mother.

"Go away," he managed around the thick lump in the middle of his throat. "Just go away."

"I'm not moving from this spot."

It wasn't his mother.

It was _Sorcha_.

Malcolm heard her, he angled his head, stared at his closed bedroom door, but he hurt so badly he couldn't form the words necessary to answer her.

"Malcolm, I'll sit outside this door until you answer. See if I don't."

He swore she learned the knack of issuing commands from his mother. Her simple words held the same echoes of authority, and the same undertones of compulsion his mother's could.

"Why are you awake?" he asked as a ghostly breath blew across his clammy skin. "You should be sleeping."

"Sleep issues." He could almost see the smirk screwing up the corner of her mouth. "I developed them because of my dope for a best friend."

His stomach twisted into greasy knots. A combination of guilt, grief, and a never ending wave of regret.

"You know you don't have to knock."

"Given how things are at the moment…" Sorcha opened the door and stepped inside. "It seemed like the appropriate thing to do."

He hated that she felt like she had to ask his permission to enter his room.

Hated himself for being the cause of this divide between them.

How to fix it, though?

He had no clue.

"You never worried about knocking before."

"You weren't talking to your dead girlfriend before."

There was no heat in her tone. No bitterness. Just a soft understanding that hurt beyond description.

"I want her to go away." His hand trembled so hard he swore the bones would crack. "I told her to go away."

Sorcha came and sat on the edge of the bed. _Another change_ , Malcolm realized as a shudder rolled through him. Before she'd have crawled into bed with him, curled herself around him, singing softly until he found his balance. His calm.

"She won't ever go away, Mal." Her lips curved into a sad, sweet smile. "Some part of Eve Blanchard will remain with you even after you figure out why she was killed." She heaved a quiet sigh. "It's how grief works. Even if you get over her death she will still be between you and whatever women you date."

She said as much to Gil a few weeks ago. That she couldn't be with him because she'd never trust, never believe he was with her because she was the one he wanted.

"That won't happen."

"Mal, no woman will ever live up to the illusion of her you've created of her. You've turned her into a paragon."

"She's not you."

Sorcha's face went blank as stone. "We really shouldn't discuss this right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I've got enough whiskey sloshing around in my gut at the moment to not be shy about what I say."

"You've been drinking with my mother?"

Sorcha quit drinking after the night they went out with Mandy and he got attacked. For her to indulge now shocked him to the core of his being.

"I needed a drink after finding out your girlfriend was murdered by the same man who tried to kill your father and that you were arrested on suspicion of killing in retaliation." She stared down at the hands she folded neatly in her lap. "Now, I suggest we focus on that subject instead of one that will cause us to hurt each other more than we already are hurting."

"We can't avoid this subject forever."

_Not if we hope to ever get back to what we were_.

"There's nothing for us to discuss, Mal. I told you, I'll be your friend. I'll be here for you as you grieve your girlfriend. I'll help you with finding out why she was murdered. I'll help you figure out how you were framed for Eddie's murder. I'll even help you with stopping this man, Endicott. But I won't be your replacement for her. We both deserve more than that."

"If I can't fix things with you, how can I solve how I was framed or why Eve was killed?"

"Because solving murders is what you are good at." Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "It's relationships you suck at."

She wasn't wrong.

Murder and murderers he understood.

Relationships? Made about as much sense as current fashion trends.

"I need you, Sorch."

"You needed me so much you choose a woman who lied to you from the moment she met you, ghosted you for months after a disastrous first date, never once checked on you after your ordeal with Watkins, and who continued to lie to you even after your mother got you back together."

Malcolm flinched as every word hit home. Every one was the absolute truth.

And he pushed her into speaking them.

"I'm—"

"Sorry?" Sorcha pushed to her feet so she could pace in small, tight circles in front of the bed. "You keep saying that, Mal. And I believe you mean it," she said with a small nod. "I do believe you mean it. But the reality is you chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth."

"I don't think I wan—"

"You wanted to pour the contents of this jar out on the table." She spun on one heel and stalked towards his bookcase. "You can't un-tip that jar now that those contents are in front of you and you don't like them."

She was right. He had asked for this. Pushed for it despite her warning he wasn't ready to hear what she had to say.

"You're right." Malcolm pushed himself into a seated position as Eve left him to float by the window. Proof that Sorcha was right and Eve would always be there. Always lurking at the fringes of his mind. Always a ghostly figure between him and the person he desperately wished would fold him in her arms and comfort him. "I did push you into discussing this. I thought I was ready to discuss this."

"But you're not." Again no heat. No bitterness. Just a weariness he knew went deep down into her soul. "Same as you were not ready for a relationship after what Watkins did but you pushed at me until I gave in, believing you, trusting you."

"You're right." His shoulders bowed under the weight of his guilt. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You did, though." Sorcha folded her arms about herself. "You couldn't leave things with Eve alone despite my telling you to do so. At first, I tried to understand. Told myself that making amends was just your way. After a while, though, it started eating away at me. You were calling and texting her even when it was our time together. When you told me she was coming over for dinner I knew you were going back to her."

"Why did you never point out what I was doing?"

That question had been plaguing him for weeks. When he did other things that annoyed or upset her she confronted him about them.

Except when it came to him constantly pushing her away when someone else came along.

"Ed said it was an extreme case of _mudita_. That I took such delight in your happiness that I overlooked my own."

"You shouldn't forsake your happiness. Not for me. I—"

"— will wallop you with a pillow if you complete that sentence."

He frowned. "Why would you hit me with a pillow?"

"Because you were about to say you don't deserve it."

It was galling sometimes how well she knew him.

Why wouldn't she, though?

Sorcha had fourteen years with him. They'd gone from inexperienced college kids to knowledgeable and capable adults. _Well, reasonably capable_ , Malcolm amended as Eve floated behind Sorcha to linger by his bookcase.

He wasn't capable of navigating the waters he currently found himself. JT and Gil both offered him advice on what to do, but he hadn't listened.

_And look where that got me._

"I don't deserve you."

"I'm inclined to agree." He winced, ducked his head to prevent her from seeing how much those words stung. "Yet, I'm still here, Mal. Still fighting for you and with you. Still believing in you. Still supporting you."

"I keep trying to tell you I'm—"

"— gonna get walloped if you finish that sentence, too."

"I'm—"

"—not broken," she bit out each word.

"I know you believe that but..."

"Nope."

"Sorch..." it came out almost a whine.

"We can argue over anything you like but not that," she said, tone firm. "I won't concede my stance now anymore than I would back in school."

Malcolm sucked in a breath as he lifted his head to look at her.

In the dim shadows, her eyes were huge, dark, unreadable.

Her face a porcelain mask formed from fierce determination and ironclad resolve.

His most loyal supporter.

The one person he didn't have to wonder if he could trust.

Rely on.

Reach out to when the world was coming down around him.

That he didn't have any right to ask for comfort from after he hurt her so deeply but which he couldn't stop himself from requesting, anyway.

"Would you hold me?" Raw, naked vulnerability coated every word. He didn't call them back, though. He couldn't. Not when everything inside him hurt. He shut his eyes. Not wanting to see the rejection he was sure to receive. "Please?"

The bed dipped but he couldn't bring himself to look.

Too terrified it'd be his vision of Eve and not Sorcha.

Tears leaked out the corners of his eyes when warm arms folded around him.

Drew him back against a body made of soft curves and pliant flesh.

One small hand curved over his bruised heart while the other rest on his cramping belly.

A soft sigh tickled the hair at his ear as jasmine and orchids enveloped him in a heady, intoxicating cloud.

Then she started to hum and Malcolm knew, he just knew, it'd be alright.

_'Sun, sun, sun, here it comes…'_


	5. Chapter 5

Malcolm awoke to early morning sunlight filtering through a crack in the drapes. A frown furrowed his brow as he stared at the thin slit in the rich blue material. He never slept curled on his side. He usually slept on his back.

A warm body against his back, soft breath tickling the back of his ear, and an arm curved protectively around his middle provided him with the reason for why he slept on his side.

 _Must have fallen asleep while she was signing,_ he reasoned as he attenuated to the sound of her breathing. Deep and even.

The sleep of the slightly inebriated.

Malcolm didn't fault her for her indulgence. He had been seeking the oblivion at the bottom of the whiskey decanter when SWAT bust down his door.

That the day before hadn't been a good one for either of them was a gross understatement. Malcolm couldn't claim he wasn't culpable for some of what happened, though.

He poked the bear by taking Eve to see his father. Getting him to tell them about Sophie. He caused her death by not leaving things alone as his father insisted.

He was in this mess because he put what he needed ahead of the case. Instead of smartly and wisely investigating Eve's death, he pushed full-throttle ahead and got himself arrested on suspicion of murder. He needed to take the logical route if he wanted to prove himself innocent.

He just didn't expect to have to do it alone.

 _Not alone_ , he realized as Sorcha's hand twitched where it lay atop his. _She's here to help me_.

Like she always was.

Guilt mingled with the rest of the emotions souring his stomach. If it took the rest of his life, he'd make up for being such a terrible friend to her.

 _Not just a friend_ , he amended as he made to free himself from his restraints. _Also_...

Surprise stopped him from finishing that thought. A frown creased his brow as he held up his arm.

His restraint had been removed.

"I removed them," Sorcha murmured against his shoulder. "Wanted to get comfortable."

"You know better than to remove them."

"Malcolm." She bit the word out in much the same way his mother did when she had enough of his crap. "I'm a tiny bit hungover, emotionally wore out, exhausted from lack of sleep, and in no mood to go round and round with you about this."

"You know why I need them."

"Also know I've spent fifteen years learning your breathing and body movements, teaching myself to wake before you go into a full attack, using classical conditioning techniques to combat the anxiety and paranoia."

"You've been using classical conditioning techniques on me?" More intrigued than annoyed, he looked over his shoulder at her. "What made you decide to try that?"

"Seeing how my singing calmed you after that first night terror inspired the idea to try it before you go into one."

Malcolm shifted onto his side to face her.

"Is that why you always sing _Here Comes the Sun_?"

"Dad always sang it to me because of how much comfort it brought me." Sorcha stretched her legs out against his. A familiar action that brought comfort and a wealth of good memories. "So, I decided to share it with you for the same reason. And I keep sharing it with you because I love you."

"Even if I'm a terrible friend."

"You're not a terrible friend." She made a face. "You just have moments where you're a complete and utter ass."

"I'm going to make it up to you, Sorch." He made that promise even as Eve floated back and forth in front of his bookcase. "I'm going to make it up to you."

"I don't want you to make up anything, you dope."

"But—"

"Some things you can't make up for." Her hand took his. "You just do your best to never do those things again."

"I want to be a better friend than I have been."

"Well, I think proving your innocence and taking this Endicott down needs to come before that promise." She squeezed his fingers. "Won't be able to do much if you end up behind bars. You know they won't put you in the vulnerable prisoner wing."

He'd end up in general population.

Same as his father.

Only, he'd have a larger target on his back being a former federal agent and the son of the Surgeon.

"Dr. Tanaka is who we need to talk with first."

Malcolm agreed with her.

"Edrisa can tell us about Eddie's body."

"The blood is what I'm more interested in."

"It's not mine."

Sorcha rolled her eyes. "No shit, Einstein."

"It's too early for sarcasm."

"You woke me up by fidgeting."

Instantly contrite, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Go back to sleep."

"No." She pushed herself up with a groan. "We have a small window to work with here before charges will officially be brought against you."

"They can't formally charge me. The evidence they have is fabricated."

"And damming." She moved to sit on the side of the bed. "Grand jury will see that and call for charges. We have to prove it's fake or planted before then."

"Fake?" Malcolm sat up. "Do you think that's possible?"

"Dad worked a case a few years before his death where a doctor was brought up on charges of murdering his wife and children. He claimed he was innocent. Turns out he was telling the truth and that his partner had a fake DNA sample made by a couple of students at Berkeley."

"That doesn't explain how my skin and hair fibers got on Eddie."

"Malcolm." The faint edge of irritation worked its way into her voice. "It really be nice if you'd remember you were a federal agent at some point."

"I've never forgotten I was a federal agent."

"Try thinking like one then."

"I am thinking like one." He frowned. "Why do you think I'm not?"

"Because the case involves you."

"Meaning what exactly?"

"You don't do you." She twisted around at his scoff. "You've admitted yourself that when you're working a case that you don't focus on yourself. Well, you have to do that here because _you_ are the main focus. Not Eve, your dad, Endicott, _you_."

Much as Malcolm wanted to, he couldn't deny any of that. He didn't think about himself when working cases. His safety and well-being didn't matter when he was trying to find a missing person or stop a killer.

This time, though, he was the primary focus. It was his innocence he had to prove. Eve, her sister, his dad, and Endicott were all part of the problem. They were also part of the solution. He had to find the pieces. Connect all the dots. Arrive at the conclusion that'd see him exonerated.

"You're right." Malcolm drew one leg up and placed his arm across it. "I don't worry about myself or my well-being when working cases. And," he said before Sorcha could interject with her typical _no, shit_ comment, "I can't do that this time. Not if I want to prove I didn't kill Eddie."

"There's just one problem with that."

"What?"

"You're an adrenaline-junkie. You crave the high you get from running into dangerous situations. That's why you pick superficial relationships. There's some form of risk involved. Some element of danger. The potential for pain. And before you say it..." Her lips twitched. "I know your thoughts on Jung and masochism. Doesn't change the fact that you're a borderline masochist. Only, you believe you deserve the pain because of what your father did."

"I am to blame. If I had—"

"Nope."

Malcolm frowned.

"What?"

"Not getting into that." She blew out a breath as she combed her fingers through her hair. "Not until I'm not so hungover, anyway."

"Sorch, everything that's happened in my life has been a direct result of what my father did."

"Yes, it screwed you up, but _you're_ why _you_ can't settle in and be happy with someone like me."

"I was happy with you."

"If that was true, you wouldn't have gone back to Eve." No heat, no rancor, just a weariness Malcolm understood all too well. "Things with us are easy. There's no thrill. No spark. No danger."

"I don't tend to recall our sex life being boring."

"Sex has strong energy, when it's done correctly." Her lips curved, almost affectionately. "We never had a problem in that area. It was everywhere else that we struggled."

"Sex is easy." God, his life had been so much simpler when he was just trying to infiltrate an undercover sex club. Second he decided to try doing normal things was when everything came apart. "Love is dangerous."

"Love is dangerous because it requires us to open ourselves up, make ourselves vulnerable, make us susceptible to being hurt, and to hurting others."

"You've never hurt me."

"I've hurt you plenty of times over the years, Malcolm."

"No, you haven't."

"Sure, I have." She set a hand on his ankle. "You just don't see it."

"I don't see it because it isn't true."

"Just because I'm the healthiest relationship you have had with a woman doesn't mean I haven't done things to hurt you."

"Not arguing about this."

Her words when she didn't want to get into his reasons for why he was broken and couldn't be fixed. Something she didn't appreciate by the scowl she gave him.

"I've been petty, jealous, spiteful, and bitchy in the last twenty-four hours alone."

"Don't minimize your feelings." More of her own words. "They're valid and important."

She harrumphed and turned her back on him.

"Don't parrot my words at me."

Malcolm's lips trembled.

"You use them on me all the time."

"You tend to minimize your feelings to avoid dealing with them."

"You need to go back to sleep."

"No, I need coffee." She flicked a look at him from over her shoulder. "Gimme your shirt."

"Why?"

"Because the reason for why you like how I smell is the same reason why I like how you smell."

 _It calms her when she's not settled_ , he instantly translated. Well, there was something he could do to help with that.

"Come lay back down," he coaxed softly. "I'll rub the back of your neck."

"I'm disappointed," she lightly teased as she scooted back in the bed. "Figured you'd suggest sex as a better headache relief than caffeine."

Malcolm hummed a laugh. "While sexual activity has been proven to provide almost complete relief from most cluster headaches and migraines... my mother being down the hall puts a stop to it."

"Your mother suggested using sex when we couldn't get you to stay home to let your hand heal."

Malcolm gaped at her.

"My _mother_ suggested sex as a means to keep me at home?"

"Mhm." Sorcha tucked her head under his chin with a small, content sound. "Tend to recall you were quite happy to stay home, too."

"I was also trying to avoid Gil."

"Well, you did crush his car."

Malcolm hummed softly as he sifted his fingers through her hair to her nape. "Quiet or I won't sing to you."

Her hand curved over his heart. "You haven't sang to me since the night you got drunk and locked yourself in your bathroom."

"I have no memory of that."

"You were completely shit-faced."

"What did I sing?"

" _Barbie Girl_."

Malcolm grimaced. "I'm surprised you didn't kill me."

"I considered it."

"Why didn't you?"

"Gil said I'd miss you too much."

Malcolm hummed a laugh as he rubbed her neck in the same slow, soothing circles she and Gil did when he was out of balance.

"Well, I'm going to sing something better this time, I promise."

" _I Don't Want To Miss A Thing_?"

It wasn't _his_ original choice of song but it was what _she_ requested. So he sang it, committing the moment to memory, as he had every time she sang _Here Comes The Sun_ to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom Singing  
> Link being fussy: https://youtu.be/2o9yQah0juA


	6. Chapter 6

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to come out of your room."

Malcolm frowned at his sister as he slid into a chair across from her at the dining room table.

"Sorcha needed to sleep," was the only explanation he gave.

"Sleep." Amusement twinkled in the depths of Ainsley's eyes. Trembled in the curve of her lips. "I can't imagine why."

"She's a bit hungover."

 _Because she decided to have drinks with our mother last night_ , he added silently.

Something he still hadn't quite managed to wrap his head around. Sorcha refrained from touching alcohol after the hell Robert put her through last year. That Watkins put them through at Christmas.

That he put them through after he went out a window right before a bomb could make purée of Bright, got electroshock therapy, stabbed his father, and essentially pulled their lives apart when he chose to resume dating Eve.

_She reached her breaking point with my getting arrested on suspicion of murder._

Another ball of guilt joined the rest bouncing around in his belly.

"Sorcha was hungover?" One flaxen brow quirked. "I thought she swore off drinking after the night you got attacked?"

"She did." Malcolm kept his gaze trained on the pristine tablecloth covering the table. "She reached a breaking point last night and decided to have a drink or two."

 _Or three or four_.

"You've been through a lot." Ainsley took a sip of her coffee. "Her ex-boyfriend tried to kill her, you got kidnapped by a serial killer, you stabbed Dad, her ex tried to get revenge on you two, and now this. Kinda can see why she had a few drinks last night."

"That's why she needed to sleep."

"Sleep isn't the only thing that works to cure a hangover headache."

Malcolm rolled his eyes as he reached for the silver coffee pot set in the middle of the table.

"Why are you here?" he asked as he poured the hot liquid into a cup. "I figured you would be busy reporting the latest scandal to engulf our family."

"Mom called a meeting."

Malcolm tamped down his frustration. Harder to control was the tremor that rocked his hand.

"Of course, she did."

Why wouldn't their mother call a meeting? Their family was under attack by a man with more resources at his disposal than any of them could have imagined.

"You're in a lot of trouble here, bro."

"I'm perfectly aware of how much trouble I'm in, Ains."

The electronic device cinched around his ankle reminded him how much trouble he was in with every move he made.

"So..." Ainsley looked at him expectantly. Waiting for an answer to a question Malcolm couldn't figure out. When he arched a brow in return, she huffed, and asked, "What's your first move going to be?"

Malcolm considered his answer as he poured coffee into a second cup.

"I need to find a way to see Eddie's body."

That was his top priority, he decided as he carefully set the pot back in the middle of the table. He could figure out how and when Eddie died once he got a look at his body. Harder to prove was the blood not being his. _Sorcha has an idea on that, though._

"Why do you need to the body?" A quizzical frown pulled at Ainsley's brow. "What does seeing it do?"

"It will tell me how he died for starters." He spooned sugar into one of the cups. Added enough cream to turn the coffee an almond color. "If I can figure out how he died... what?" he asked when he caught the smile on Ainsley's face. "Why're you smiling at me like that?"

"Isn't sugar and cream how Sorcha takes her coffee?"

Embarrassed color filled Malcolm's cheeks. He ducked his head to avoid seeing Ainsley's smile stretch into a knowing grin.

"Yes, it is."

"So, is it safe to say you two are back on the same page?"

"No." He stirred cream into his own cup. "We're nowhere near being on the same page."

_Not with Eve's ghost floating between us and me likely heading to jail for a murder I didn't commit._

"She handled things with Eve better than I would have," Ainsley said as she reached for a piece of toast. "I wouldn't have packed my things and left."

"You'd have made a scene."

"Oh, I'd have made a huge scene," she confirmed as she spread a bit of jelly on the toast. "I would have burst in on your dinner party and made it clear I was your girlfriend and that I wasn't going anywhere."

Malcolm curled his fingers around his cup but did not lift it.

"I wish Sorcha had done that."

"She needed _you_ to make that declaration." She waved her piece of toast at him. "To establish what her place in your life was."

"And I didn't because I'm an idiot."

Ainsley took a bite of her toast and smiled at him. "It's part of your charm." Pit vipers had more charm than he did in his opinion. "Seriously, bro, don't screw things up with Sorcha."

"You mean again?"

"What do you mean again?"

"Ains, I've been screwing things up with Sorcha since we met."

"I like to think you didn't screw things up until second year." Sorcha slid into the chair next to his, smelling of jasmine and orchids, and wearing one of his shirts. Something that Ainsley's smile confirmed she hadn't missed. "That was when you asked Cathy Morrison to go to that mixer being held off campus."

"Cathy Morrison?" Ainsley pursed her lips. "Why do I know that name?"

"She owns and operates _Femme Fatale_."

"The private, members only sex club?"

"That's the one."

Malcolm bit down on his lip, tasted shame as he recalled Cathy Morrison drug him to an underground sex club instead of going with him to that mixer. Told him she was going to teach him about "sexual freedom" and introduce him to a "bona fide sensual utopia."

What he ended up with were traumas piled on top of the plethora of others he already had. Sorcha discovered a set of half-healed bruises and whip marks on his back and torso after he tweaked his back in a boxing session. She questioned him about them but he refused to answer, too ashamed to tell her what was going on.

Not that his refusal to talk about how he got the injuries stopped Sorcha from finding out. No, she'd simply confronted Cathy and made clear what would happen if she came near him again.

Not that his spiral stopped there. After Cathy came Lori who convinced him to stop taking his medication. That resulted in Gil flying up to get him and bring him home for a thirty day stay in the hospital.

The only reason he didn't fall behind in his classes was because Sorcha taped the lectures on a recorder and brought them to him every weekend.

"You saved me." He hadn't meant to say those words out loud. He wished he could call them back. He couldn't, though, so he glanced at Sorcha from the corner of his eye. "Like you always do."

Her hand settled on his knee under the table, gently squeezed. "We've been saving each other all these years, you dope."

"You saved yourself from Robert."

"I'd be dead if you hadn't figured out where he took me and got Gil and paramedics there in time."

His hand took hers under the table. Needing that comfort and support despite telling himself he didn't deserve it.

"You'd have found a way to save yourself."

Sorcha held up the arm Robert slashed with a knife.

"My arm was useless, Mal. If you hadn't found me when you did, I'd have bled to death."

 _Twenty stitches_ , he thought as he stared at the scar running from her wrist almost to her elbow. The doctor who sutured the wound closed told him it was a miracle no muscle or nerves had been severed. Sorcha covered the scar with two hummingbirds drinking from the same orchid. _To represent them_ , she told him the day she got it done.

"You aren't a mess like me, Sorch."

"We're all a mess in our own ways." She side-eyed him. "And if you try to give me the broken and not fixable spiel, I will pour orange juice on you."

"Grape juice stains better."

Malcolm grimaced as he recalled the many times Ainsley poured grape juice on him because she got mad at him for something.

"Oh, I know." Sorcha hummed a laugh. "I poured an entire jug of grape juice on my brother."

"How old were you?"

"Twenty-one."

Ainsley laughed softly.

"Were you mad at him?"

"I was aiming for your brother, actually."

Ainsley blinked her eyes wide. "What did he do?"

"Said I was broken." He slid his fingers between Sorcha's. "Moved before she could get me."

"I got you back later."

The words were low, intimate. Skittered along his every nerve, electrifying them. As she intended them, too.

"Go upstairs, you two," Ainsley teased.

"This feels like 2005 all over again," his mother said as she sailed into the room. "Only, my son wasn't suspected of murder."

"Mother, I assure you, I am innocent."

"I'm perfectly aware of that, dear." His mother took the cup of coffee that Ainsley poured for her with a small smile. "Now, your therapist will be here at ten."

"Don't even think about refusing to see Gabrielle," Sorcha chimed in before Malcolm could launch a protest. "You'll see her or I'm out of here."

As far as threats went, it was an effective one. He'd do anything to keep Sorcha with him. _Which she knows_ , he groused as Ainsley snickered softly. He wished they were kids again. Then he could kick her under the table and be rewarded by getting sent to his room.

"I can see Gabrielle after we figure out how to keep me from going to jail for murder."

"You'll see her today, tomorrow, and any other day that is deemed necessary." Sorcha shifted to face him. "I've let you be lax about seeing her, Mal. No more. You needed to see her after Watkins, after you stabbed your father, after Robert sent that lunatic after us and didn't. Not this time. You're seeing Gabrielle and that's final."

"When did you get so bossy?" He furrowed his brow and poured himself another cup of coffee. "Don't remember you being so bossy."

"Always been bossy," she said as she set a piece of toast on the plate in front of him. "You just didn't mind it."

"I was completely oblivious to it, you mean." He eyed the toast and then her. "Not hungry isn't going to work here, is it?"

"You haven't eaten anything substantial since the day before yesterday."

"I did, too."

"Pretzels and licorice sticks don't count as substantial."

Malcolm inwardly cursed. Of course, she'd predict what he ate. Why wouldn't she? Sorcha knew everything about him.

"They're substantial," he pointed out. "And filling."

"Try eating the toast." She leaned over to brush a kiss to his forehead, his cheek. "For me."

The ends of his lips curled. "That's not manipulative at all."

"I'll get you jello and won ton soup for lunch."

His lips inched up another fraction of an inch.

"Bribery now?"

"If she was going to bribe you," Ainsley popped in to say, "she'd need that nurse outfit I saw in the back of your closet."

"Ains!" Malcolm glowered at his sister.

"What?" She blinked her eyes. The picture of innocence. "It's not like it's some big secret here, bro."

Malcolm wished the floor would open up and plunge him into the basement.

"Ains," Sorcha said with a small kernel of amusement. "You're embarrassing your brother."

"I know." Ainsley smirked. "That's why it's so much fun."

Malcolm shot her a dirty look. Before he could reply, Louisa entered, and placed a platter of eggs and some fresh fruit on the table. The sight of both curdled his stomach.

"Just the toast." Sorcha squeezed his fingers. "Please?"

He broke a piece off and offered it to her. "Only if you have some, too."

"2005 all over again." The fond tinge to his mother's voice, to her smile surprised Malcolm. If he hadn't seen her say the words he wouldn't have believed they came from her. It wasn't like his mother to speak fondly of the past. He was about to ask if she was okay when she sighed and said, "Only your father wasn't rotting in Rikers like he is now."

Malcolm took a bite of his toast and refrained from saying anything. He didn't want to break the relative good mood surrounding everyone.

Especially since it wasn't going to last long.


	7. Chapter 7

"It seems like you and Sorcha have worked through a few of your problems."

"We haven't worked through them." Malcolm looked up from the spot in the rug he had been staring at since begrudgingly following Gabrielle into the living room, and sitting down for this mandated session. He couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. Focused, instead, on a spot over her right shoulder. Cowardice or insecurity, he didn't know which. "We've talked about a few of our issues but we have not worked through them."

Not to a point where they reached any sort of resolution, anyway.

Why not?

Because every time they started to work through their issues something came along to interrupt them to interrupt them before they managed to reach any sort of understanding.

First, it was trial preparation for John Watkins and Robert Harwood keeping Sorcha busy.

Then came the Xenophobic Killer to distract him.

Sorcha text him the day they closed that case to tell him someone left a severed thumb in her mailbox. That spiraled into multiple bodies, their private life exposed, and him getting stabbed.

_Again_.

Now, he had been arrested on suspicion of murder, framed by a man with an endless array of resources at his fingertips.

"You are not back together then?"

Malcolm's brow feathered as he pondered how best to answer that question. If Sorcha were there she'd point out they'd never really been together. _Because I've never allowed us to really have the chance, the opportunity to become more than just friends._

Because he always chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth. Pain over pleasure.

"Malcolm?"

"Sorcha and I are not back together, no." His fingers trembled so he clenched them into fists he stuck between his knees. "We've never been together. Just..." he broke off, wet his suddenly dry lips. "Friends."

The word sounded as hollow as he felt.

Dating but not dating.

That's what Gil told him the day he bought the charm bracelet intended to replace the one Robert Harwood took from Sorcha.

The bracelet she tossed at him the night she stormed out of their loft.

The one currently tucked away in his pocket because he hadn't found the right time or place to give it back to her.

"If you have never been together than why is she here?"

"Because she's helping me with figuring out how I was framed for murder."

"Yes, the murder of the man believed to have killed your girlfriend." Gabrielle sat back in her chair, balancing a notepad across one knee. "How are you coping with Eve Blanchard's death?"

"Fine." The lie tasted foul. "Well, moderately fine." He looked back down at the rug, a frown between his eyes. "Okay, I'm _reasonably_ fine."

"Have you been having any hallucinations of her? The Girl in the Box?"

Malcolm didn't want to discuss his hallucinations.

Not when everything inside him was so raw, tender.

How could he tell Gabrielle he wasn't seeing Eve, though?

Especially when she was currently floating around the room, smiling her sad smile, and gazing at him with eyes full of accusations.

"I see her all the time." He swallowed back equal amounts of guilt and regret. "She doesn't go away. No matter how much I beg her, too, she doesn't go away."

"You need time to adjust to your loss, Malcolm. To grieve. That's the only way you will disengage from Eve and move on to form new relationships."

He didn't want to move on to form new relationships.

He wanted to fix the relationship he broke.

There was just one gigantic concrete block standing between him and his goal.

"Sorcha said I need to get justice for Eve before I can move on from her death."

"You don't believe she has gotten justice with the death of her murderer?"

Malcolm folded his quaking hands together between his knees. Not that it helped control the tremors. Nothing controlled those.

Not for long, anyway.

"The man who had Eve killed is the same man that's framed me for murder."

"I see." Did she? Because Malcolm didn't think so. Especially since half the time he thought he was looking at things through a magnifying glass turned backwards. "Malcolm, you've already gotten justice for Eve. You found the man responsible for her death. Why can't you accept that and move on?"

"Because the man who hired him to kill her remains free." He raised his head, stared at a point on the wall just to the right of her face. "He needs to be stopped. That's the only way Eve will get justice."

_And the only way I can move on with my life._

"Malcolm, we've talked about your masochistic tendencies before."

"Yes, we have," he allowed with a small nod. "And I admit I have done things intended to cause myself pain because I believed I deserved that pain." Gabrielle's small _hmm_ made him squirm. "Okay, I've done a lot of things to cause myself pain because I believe I deserve that pain."

Sorcha hadn't been wrong when she called him an adrenaline-junkie. He did crave the high he got from running into dangerous situations. He did pick superficial relationships because of the potential possibility there was for pain, humiliation, degradation. He did ignore his own safety and well-being while working cases.

He deserved that pain for failing to turn his father in.

For letting twenty-three people die.

"Looking to get revenge on the man responsible for your girlfriend's death could exacerbate those self-destructive tendencies you have." Gabrielle's voice was soft but firm. "You are walking a dark and dangerous path here, Malcolm."

He was fully aware how his wanting revenge on Endicott could cause his masochistic tendencies to spiral out of control.

That it could lead him farther down the path than he ever went before.

That it could push him into stepping over that line he spent the last twenty years doing his best to avoid.

The one John Watkins and Martin Whitly wanted him to cross.

To prove he was the killer they were.

"I don't have any choice," he said somberly. "I have to stop this man."

_Before he hurts someone else I care about._

...

"So, are you and my brother going to finally figure things out between you or are you going to continue dancing around each other like you have been?"

Sorcha had been asking herself the same thing while sitting on the bottom stair and waiting for Malcolm to finish his session with Gabrielle. It wasn't an easy question to answer. They had so many things they needed to worry about at that moment.

Keeping him from being sent to jail for a murder he didn't commit being the biggest one.

However, there was also the matter of Eve Blanchard.

A woman Sorcha never met, did her best to not resent or blame for what happened between her and Malcolm, but still found herself jealous of despite her best efforts. She tried to reject her bitterness but it only made her anger burn hotter.

Become more toxic.

Isolating herself away from Malcolm and saying it was so she could set boundaries between them didn't make things better, either. Least of all after he showed up on Gil's doorstep in the middle of the night, a complete emotional mess after Eve walked out on him, and clinging to her like moss on an oak tree.

Staying away from Malcolm while he was in the middle of his crisis had been the hardest thing she had ever done. So many times she wanted to go to him, put her arms around him, and tell him it was gonna be alright.

Like she always did.

She couldn't this time, though.

Malcolm had to learn he couldn't hurt her and she'd just shrug it off.

Accept it as part of his innumerable issues.

Robert deciding to launch a full scale attack on them put them back inside each other's circles. They had to work together, support each other, and especially comfort each other after their private life got exposed.

She hadn't lied to Malcolm when she confessed to doing things that hurt him. Many of those things hadn't been intentional. Just byproducts of situations and events out of their control. Some, though, she had done intentionally. Trying to hurt him as he hurt her.

And only hurting herself in the process.

"I don't know," Sorcha finally settled on saying. "I'd like to think that we will sort this mess out and find some way back to how we were before we tried dating for the millionth time."

"But?" Ainsley's lips quirked. "I smell a _but_ here."

Sorcha snorted a laugh. "Those investigative reporter skills are serving you well, Ains."

"Well, I am a better detective than my brother." Ainsley playfully tossed her hair. "I mean, I did figure out Eve wasn't all she claimed to be."

"I recall you came to me for help with that."

A playful grin tugged at Ainsley's mouth.

"I don't recall anyone saying it mattered _how_ an investigative reporter comes by their information."

"Touché."

"Tell me something," Ainsley said as she joined her on the bottom stair. "Why didn't you stand up to Malcolm when you realized what was about to happen with Eve?"

There was the million dollar question.

The one she'd spent weeks in therapy trying to find an answer too.

Might have, too if her therapist hadn't been kidnapped, his thumb removed, and the rest of his body turned into ashes.

"I tend to put Malcom's needs ahead of mine is partially why." Sorcha lowered her gaze to the pad of paper she'd started jotting notes on. "I always think of what's best for him. What his particular issues require to keep them from spiraling out of control."

"You sacrificed yourself to make him happy."

"Yes."

"Now, neither of you are happy."

"No, we're not," Sorcha agreed, sending her a small smile. "And before you ask, no, I don't know how to fix things between he and I. We can't simply move on like we have in the past. Not this time."

"Why not?"

"Because Eve Blanchard was murdered. She's a ghost haunting us."

"She doesn't have to, though."

"Eve Blanchard will always be between your brother and I." Sorcha lifted her eyes to the closed living room door. "He won't let her go. And I don't know how to forget that he brought her into the place we were making our home."

"Make him move then."

Sorcha gaped at her. "Make him move?" Was Ainsley serious? "Your brother doesn't handle things like moving well."

His move back to New York had resulted in ten meltdowns.

Three, of which, had been quite severe.

The last of which resulted in her flying down to Washington to make sure he didn't do anything harmful to himself.

"Tell him you want to remodel his loft then," Ainsley said. "Make it yours as much as his."

Sorcha went to point out how that wouldn't fly with Malcolm, either, but stopped herself.

Considered.

_That… isn't a bad idea_ , she realized as Ainsley stretched her legs out in front of her. Malcolm hadn't fussed when she wanted to remodel his kitchen. In fact, he purchased everything she lamented his not having for her as a surprise.

They weren't talking a few pots, pans or a stand mixer here, though.

This was adding the little things that made a place home. Knickknacks, pictures, items of sentimental value and comfort.

A merging of his eclectic taste with hers.

Adding elements of herself that'd establish the loft as hers.

"I think he'd agree to that," she finally said with a slow smile.

"Agree to what?" Malcolm questioned as he exited the living room. He cast a suspicious look at them. "What have you two been plotting while I was talking with Gabrielle?"

"How Sorcha needs to remodel your loft," Ainsley cheerfully informed him as she got to her feet. "Make it less your bachelor pad and more a home the two of you share."

Malcolm's gaze swung to Sorcha's. A raw, desperate hope filled his face. Her heart fluttered at the naked vulnerability turning his eyes from blue to green.

_A crossroads_ , she realized as nerves jumbled. _That's what we're at._

The only question was: did she open herself up and tell Malcolm what she wanted, needed from him or did she keep quiet like always?

Accomplishing nothing and keeping them stuck in the same never-ending circle.

Firming her resolve, Sorcha set her notepad on the stair and made to grab the railing to help pull herself up. Malcolm was there before she could grab the bannister, offering a hand. She looked at it and then up at him.

"You asked me what it'd take to convince me that you were all in." She set her quivering hand in his, let him pull her to her feet. "This is it." Sorcha kept her gaze on his. "This is what I need. To have a place in your life and not have to question that it's mine."

She waited for him to refuse, to say she asked for too much, that he couldn't give her what she wanted, needed.

Malcolm surprised her, though.

Much like he had when she asked him to stop seeing his father in their second year at Harvard.

He rest his forehead against hers and said, "Okay."

It wasn't a huge step but to Sorcha it was an important one.


	8. Chapter 8

"Bright's crazy, skinny ass didn't do it." JT glared at the report he had been reading through the last ten minutes. Every word only added to the fury on a slow simmer in his gut. "Just no way he did it."

He refused to believe Bright murdered that piece of garbage in cold blood. It didn't fit with who Bright was. Not that Dani seemed to agree.

"DNA says otherwise."

JT shot a mildly reproving look at her. "You telling me you believe Bright killed this Eddie in cold blood?"

Dani looked up from the laptop she had been watching hospital security footage on. Stress lines at the corner of her mouth and eyes were JT's only clue as to her inner turmoil. Dani wanted to believe Bright was innocent but her trust issues and her desire for objectivity made it difficult for her too.

"Bright had a motive." She ignored his scoff. "He went to the hospital despite everyone telling him not too." She turned back to the computer. "It's his blood and hair on Eddie's body."

"Guy is a former FBI agent." JT folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his seat. "Don't think he'd be so careless as to leave behind anything that'd link him to a murder."

"He was emotionally distraught," Dani said. "Not thinking clearly or rationally."

"Sounds like Bright being Bright there." Guy idled at emotionally distraught in JT's mind. "Still don't think he'd be so careless as to leave behind any trace evidence that'd link him to a murder."

"Yeah, well, he did."

"Then why are there no scratches to corroborate the blood we found under Eddie's nails then?"

"I don't know why Bright has no scratches on him. I can't explain it." Dani turned her head to stare at the white board with narrowed eyes. "Not yet."

"You believe Bright killed Eddie." JT couldn't mask his surprise or his irritation. "You actually believe his scrawny ass murdered this guy."

"DNA doesn't lie, JT."

"No, it don't, but we both know it can be fabricated. Planted. Seen it happen before."

"This wasn't fabricated and it wasn't planted." Dani's lips pursed. "Bright was angry, he wanted to know why Eddie killed Eve, and he decided to get revenge for her. Case closed."

_That's what she thinks_ , JT thought as the phone rang in Gil's office. _This case will only be closed when we prove Bright didn't do it._

"You were willing to give the guy a chance to prove himself, to become part of the team before Gil told us how he called the police on his pops." JT cocked his head to the side. "But you believe he killed Eddie?"

"Facts say he did it."

"Yeah." JT unfolded his arms and pushed to his feet. "Faith says he didn't."

"You believe Bright's theory he's being framed then?"

"I believe Bright, yeah." JT grabbed his mug and headed for the door. "Guy might be a pain in the ass," _and that's a huge understatement_ , he added silently, "but he's pretty much right when it comes to this stuff."

"Say he is right and he's being framed." A frown formed between Dani's eyes. "Why? What does framing him for Eddie's murder accomplish?"

"Keeps his scrawny ass from interfering in whatever game this Endicott is playing for one." JT ambled towards the door. "Bright can't profile or investigate if he's behind bars." He held up his mug. "I need a refill. You want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Back in ten then."

_Hopefully, with some idea of how to pull Bright's ass from the fire._

Otherwise, the kid was gonna be joining his old man in prison.

And that, in JT's opinion, was the last thing that Malcolm Bright needed.

…

"Were you serious about wanting to redecorate the loft?"

Malcolm hadn't meant to ask that question. Not in the middle of them organizing a list of things to accomplish in the next few hours, anyway. He just couldn't get his brain to wrap around what he needed it too.

Not until he knew for sure if Sorcha was serious about redecorating the loft.

"What?" Sorcha looked up from the notepad she had been jotting notes on, a frown between her eyes, and her lips pursed in concentration. "I'm sorry, I was busy adding what you just said to the list. What did you ask me?"

There was no doubt in Malcolm's mind that Sorcha heard him. She was simply pretending she hadn't to avoid answering his question.

_A defense mechanism_ , he reasoned as he traced circles on the inside of her right knee with the tip of his finger. Prevaricating. Trying to deflect his attention away from the question he put to her to avoid having to make herself vulnerable again.

Not that he intended to let the question slide.

This time, anyway.

He had fallen for that ploy many times in the past without even realizing it.

_I let myself fall for it_ , he corrected as Sorcha shifted the notepad in her lap so she could continue writing on it.

Malcolm freely admitted he could be oblivious to the feelings of others. He tended to forget about or ignore the thoughts and emotions of others while working a case. _Or involved in a crisis of my own_ , he added, grimacing slightly.

Sorcha had been right when she said he acted like an ass.

He did.

Frequently.

Dani was the latest example of his being an ass to a friend. She opened up to him about burying her dad at sixteen because that's what friends did but he couldn't reciprocate.

He couldn't tell Dani he was the one who stabbed his father in order to lure out the Carousel Killer.

Not because he didn't trust her but because he needed to protect his mother at any and all costs.

_I never apologized to Edrisa for what I said to her in Dev's apartment, either_. He went to the morgue after realizing something had been off in their phone conversation, not because he intended to apologize for having unintentionally hurt her while they deliberated over how to save Dev's life. Once Leanne had been subdued he hadn't the heart to tell Edrisa his words hadn't been meant for her. He simply hadn't wanted to hurt her a second time. _I should do something for her_ , he decided as Sorcha let out a soft sigh. _Show her my appreciation for her continued friendship and loyalty_.

For now, he focused on the woman pretending interest in the things she had written down.

The one trying to feign how she hadn't heard his question when he knew perfectly well she had.

_Well, two can play this game_.

Only, he planned to win.

"I asked if you're serious about wanting to remodel the loft?"

"Oh, that."

Airily, dismissively, as if the question bore no significance whatsoever.

Malcolm wasn't falling for it.

"Yes, that." His lips quirked. "Are you serious about it?"

"It was just something Ainsley suggested."

"Yes, I know it was. Now, were you serious about it?"

"It was merely a way of opening a line of dialogue between us." Sorcha reached for the cup of coffee she set on the floor before they started making notes about what they needed to do. "A negotiation tactic if you will."

"Did you mean it, though?" he pressed. "Do you want to redecorate the loft?"

"Mal—"

"Prevaricating."

Her brow furrowed. "Am not."

"Are too." He squeezed her knee. "Now, answer the question."

"I did."

"No, you said it was something Ainsley suggested as a way of opening a line of dialogue between us."

"Which is all it was."

"Sorch..."

"What?" Innocent as she took a sip of coffee. Cool as a cucumber as she lowered the cup. Malcolm didn't buy it for one minute. "She did suggest redecorating the loft as a way of opening a line of dialogue between us."

_She's being difficult now_ , Malcolm groused as he stared into her dark eyes. _Evading the answer by saying the one she gave is the answer._

Part of him suspected this was payback for all the times he had been difficult.

A taste of his own medicine.

He didn't especially like it and let her know so with a look.

Not that Sorcha was impressed by it.

Malcolm heaved a frustrated sigh.

"Do you want to redecorate the loft?" He stopped her before she could repeat her earlier answer. "Tell me the truth this time."

"I have been telling you the truth."

"No, you've been telling me a part of the truth." He sent her an imploring look. "I want you to tell me the other half of it now."

He thought she was gonna refuse when her face scrunched up in that way it did whenever she was about to say no.

"Yes, okay?" She set her cup back on the floor with a disgruntled sigh. "I want to redecorate the loft. Add things that are me. Make it as much mine as yours. Like our apartment at school was."

Malcolm remembered the apartment they shared their final year at Harvard. The bits and pieces of each other that had been all over the place.

The afghan Sorcha crocheted in undergraduate year over the back of the couch they bought at a yard sale.

The drapes her mom sewed covering the front window.

The bed they built from the wood pallets they talked a guy at the dock into giving them.

Pictures of family, places they had gone, things they had seen on the walls, shelves, nightstands.

Books and other odds and ends stashed wherever there was space in the cabinets they bought.

The cat-post they bought after Harvey decided to stay with them in a corner of the bedroom.

It created a place of comfort and security.

A _home_.

Something his mother's house stopped being after his father's arrest.

A place he only experienced when he'd go stay with Gil and Jackie.

Somewhere his loft no longer felt after the intimate pictures taken of him and Sorcha by Robert Harwood's partner, Tammy Lynn had been seen by his supposed friends.

_It could be a home again_ , he realized, belly tightening with a mixture of hope and anticipation. _If we work at it._

Slowly, and steadily.

"We have more stuff now than we did back then."

Sorcha hummed a laugh.

"I have less clothes than you do."

"You have more shoes than me."

A grin tugged at her lips. "I have less shoes than your mother, though."

"That you do." Malcolm chuckled softly. "And not all stilettos, thankfully."

"Yeah, your mom is deadly with a stiletto."

"Just ask my television."

"Mal." Sorcha again reached for her coffee. "Admitting what I want doesn't mean you have to give it to me. It's just an opening for us to talk. _Really_ talk," she stressed before he could interrupt her. "And not just half-ass it like we have been."

"I want to make the loft our home." His eyes met hers. "I want you to come home."

"Well." Sorcha finished the last of her coffee and returned the cup to the floor. "The first thing we got to do is figure out this mess you're in. But to do that..."

"We need to talk with Edrisa."

"Right."

"I can get my ankle monitor off..." A frown feathered his brow. "Sneaking in to talk with Edrisa without Gil or the rest of the team finding out is going to be the problem."

"Not if I cause a scene that keeps them distracted."

A grin tugged at Malcolm's lips as he considered what kind of scene she could cause. "Think you can distract them for ten minutes?"

"Mal." Sorcha's smile was smug. "I can keep them busy for as long as you need."

"Ten minutes is all I need."

"Go get your bag then." She slid her legs off his lap. "We only have a few hours before orders will come down to arrest you."

_And the clock is quickly counting down_ , Malcolm realized as he headed upstairs to get what he needed.


	9. Chapter 9

Malcolm couldn't stop himself from grumbling, "Did Gil have to show up right as we were leaving?" as he snuck out of the house with Sorcha.

He tossed a look over his shoulder as he followed Sorcha to where her car was parked, half expecting to find Gil standing on the front stoop, hands on his hips, and a look of annoyance on his face.

To Malcolm's relief, he found Gil wasn't standing there.

"I think his showing up was a stroke of luck."

"It stole time we don't have to waste and could have stopped me from getting my ankle monitor off."

"Gil showing up made getting out of your ankle bracelet a bit trickier but it didn't stop you from slipping your tether or exiting the house."

_She has a point_ , Malcolm realized. Gil showing up was an inconvenience, but it hadn't stopped him from getting his monitor off or leaving the house.

"Have to hope Leonard won't say anything to him if asked."

Sorcha sent him an amused look from over her shoulder. "I think Leonard was to hyped up over your offer to sleep in your room to rat on you."

"Right." Malcolm searched the line of cars parked on the street for anyone who appeared suspicious. Nobody leapt out at him but that didn't mean anything. Endicott had an unlimited number of people at his disposal. "I don't see anyone watching us." A frown creased his brow as another thought occurred to him. "I also don't see JT or Dani."

"They're back at the station."

"How do you know they're at the station?"

"My cousin, Mia was assigned to the precinct after she graduated the academy. She text and told me they're there."

Why hadn't he known her cousin had been assigned to the precinct? A voice instantly replied, _Because you don't pay attention to anything that isn't related to murder or murderers_. Malcolm chose to ignore that voice. Last thing he needed was a reminder about how oblivious he was to the world outside of murder and murderers.

"I still don't understand why Gil came by. Didn't he say everything he needed to say last night?"

"He was checking on your mom."

"Checking on my mother?" Malcolm shot a surprised look at her. "Why?"

"Because they have feelings for one another is why."

"They do?"

How had he missed that?

_Because you're an ass is why._

Malcolm chose to ignore that voice, too. True as the words were, he didn't need to hear them.

Not while his neck was currently in a noose and the executioner moments away from hitting the button that would drop him to his death.

"Yes, they do." Sorcha unlocked the passenger door of her car before walking around to the drivers side. "They've had feelings for each other for a long time but have never acted on them."

His brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"They have a lot of emotional baggage between them they haven't worked through for one." Sorcha opened her car door but didn't immediately climb inside. "Your father, Endicott turning out to be a real creep. Plus, Gil hasn't dated anyone since Jackie died. He felt he'd dishonor her memory if he did."

"Jackie wanted him to move on. I was there the day she made him promise to not remain a widower for the rest of his life."

"Promising is easy," Sorcha said. "Much harder to move on. Look at my mom."

"She started dating again, though."

"Yes, but it took her five years. And even then," she said as a motorcycle whizzed by, "she felt guilty. As if she was betraying Dad by going out with another man."

"She wasn't, though."

"No, she wasn't," she agreed with a slight nod. "But it still felt like it to her. Thankfully, Harry understood, having lost his wife around the same time we lost Dad."

Malcolm remembered Harry Wilson. He had been the surgeon to remove his appendix and tonsils. He had gone out of his way to help reduce his anxiety after they told him about his night terrors and his not liking feeling trapped inside his mind with his memories. _He even recorded Sorcha singing to help keep me calm during surgery_.

He liked him, thought him a kind, and decent man. Harry shared common interests with him and Sorcha. He enjoyed crime novels and World War II docuseries. Going to museums and traveling. Comics and video games. _Ghost Adventures_ and medical shows.

Erin Corbin and Harry Wilson were part of the medical field. They shared a similar social background. Had many of the same friends. Enjoyed many of the same things.

Unlike his mother and Gil.

"Do you think my mother and Gil can overcome their differences?"

"Can we?"

The question caught Malcolm off guard. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to figure out what answer wouldn't get him in trouble.

"I've always seen us being equal socially."

"You have, yes." Her lips curved. "High society doesn't. They look at me and see an opportunist. A fortune hunter. Someone looking to climb up the social ladder."

"I don't care about high society."

"Neither does Gil. The only approval he needs is yours. You are the other reason why they haven't acted on their feelings for one another."

"Me?" His eyebrows shot up. "What do I have to do with them not acting on their feelings?"

"Well, kids tend to get weird when they see their parents dating someone other than their other parent." She climbed into the car and closed the door. "Look how weirded out you were about your mother dating Endicott."

"Yeah." Malcolm settled himself in the passenger seat before shooting her a wry look. "Clearly no reason there for why I got weirded out by her dating Endicott."

"You were weirded out before finding out what a douchebag he is."

_She has a point_ , he realized as she started the car. It had been extremely uncomfortable to have Nicholas Endicott join him and Ainsley at the breakfast table the other morning. Sure, he made a small quip to ease the tension after Endicott left but he couldn't deny how his mother dating the man bothered him.

Malcolm didn't believe it was because he had any childish hope about his mother and father getting back together. As far as he was concerned, that was a ship sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic with the Titanic.

His father was never getting free and his mother would sooner stab him with one of her stiletto heels than resume their marriage.

He also wanted his mother to stay as far away from Martin Whitly as she could. Nothing good ever came from a relationship with his father. He was a prime example of how corrosive a relationship with his father was.

Malcolm had already decided that his father was a toxin he needed to flush from his life once this situation with Endicott was put to rest. It was time to take control of his life and his mental well-being. To start building a life with Sorcha that was free of his father's manipulation and control.

His mother also deserved to start her life over with someone. To find love and happiness. Especially after everything she had been through because of his father.

_Because of me_.

Malcolm put his mother through a lot after his father's arrest. Not talking for months, the nightly terrors, refusing to eat because the medicines doctors put him on made him sick, the panic attacks, changing schools multiple times because of bullies, the stays in the hospital because he allowed himself to get dehydrated, the multiple commitments because he allowed things to spiral out of control.

_The suicide attempts_.

The last shamed him the most.

His first attempt had been at thirteen. He swallowed a handful of the medications he had been put on. Chased them with a couple of his mother's sleeping pills.

Louisa found him and got help.

His mother took control of his medications after that. Made sure he only received the prescribed dose at the specified intervals.

His next attempt came when he was sixteen and the girl he thought he was dating revealed she had only been using him as part of an initiation into an elite club of their peers.

He used a razor that time but hadn't cut deep enough.

Jackie found him that time and kept him together until paramedics arrived. Gil brought someone, a girl his age, and whose father had traumatized her as much as his to see him while he spent another seventy-two hours in a psychiatric hospital for the rich.

Raya hadn't judged him. Didn't condemn him or call him a coward. No, what she told him was to take the anger he turned inwards and turn it outwards.

" _Use it to seek justice, Malcolm_ ," she said as silvery moonlight cast her in shadows. " _Be the voice of the silenced. The champion of the lost. The defender of the helpless_."

He took Raya's suggestion and turned the anger he aimed inwards, outwards. He pursued a career in law enforcement, got his degree in psychology and criminology, used his unique skills to help those victimized by men like his father and John Watkins.

His mother hadn't approved of his choice to apply to Quantico but she supported him.

In her own fashion.

Anything that kept him away from his father she approved of.

That's why she deserved a chance at finding happiness for herself. At finding love again.

Malcolm also freely admitted his mother being involved with someone would keep her from trying to control and dictate his life. She had largely left him alone while she dated Endicott.

Of course, he had also been dating Eve at the time, which thrilled her.

_And look how well those relationships turned out._

Eve ended up dead and Endicott turned into the man with a network of serial killers and assassins at his disposal.

Gil wasn't Nicholas Endicott.

If there was anyone he'd approve dating his mother, it was Gil. Still, Malcolm couldn't deny how the thought of his mentor and his mother being intimate didn't creep him out some.

"Were you and Sean weirded out when your mother started dating Harry?"

"A bit, yeah." Sorcha turned left at the corner. "I mean, we were cool with it and all, but it still weirded us out. Harry made it easy for us, though."

"How?"

"By telling us he wasn't our dad. That he wasn't trying to replace him in our lives. That he just wanted to be a part of our lives."

"Gil already is part of my life."

"And has filled the role your father abandoned since the night he answered what was believed to be a prank call." She stopped at a light. "Doesn't mean it's not still gonna be weird seeing them as a couple."

"Does it weird you out?"

"No." She sent him an easy smile. "But I'm not you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've seen the sparks flying between them since before Christmas and have secretively been hoping they'd get together."

Malcolm's eyes blinked wide. "What?"

"Mhm." The light turned green. "Unlike you, I've seen all the subtle touches between them. Unlike you, I've seen all the glances they send each other when they think nobody is paying attention."

He got her point.

"I admit it, I don't pay attention to the things that I should."

"Yeah, you definitely suck in that area." She reached over to set a hand on his knee. "But that's what makes you good at what you do."

"Being oblivious to the needs of the people around me makes me good at profiling murderers?" He sent her a skeptical look. "I seriously doubt that."

"It does, Mal." She squeezed his knee. "It allows you to focus on what's most important: victims. And while it's frustrating as hell and makes us want to beat you with a pillow quite often, it's also admirable. You give justice to the people the monsters hurt with their madness."

"It also hurts the people I love." Malcolm set his hand atop hers. "You. Gil. Ainsley and my mother. Your mother. Mandy and Sean. Jackie. I've hurt all of you."

"Love means opening yourself to being hurt."

His father said those exact words to him a few weeks back. Malcolm hadn't wanted to hear them.

Not from him.

Sorcha wasn't his father.

No, she was someone his actions, his poor choices almost cost him.

"Love means making yourself vulnerable."

"Yes, it does." Sorcha squeezed his knee again. "It also makes us strong, Mal. It's the reason we keep fighting despite everything inside telling us to give up."

"I'm not giving up. Not this time." His hand trembled atop hers. "I almost lost you this time. Not again." His fingers gripped hers. "I can't lose you."

"Not me here we have to fear losing." Sorcha pulled into the parking garage a few blocks from the precinct. "It's you if we don't figure out how Endicott framed you for Eddie's murder."

"We'll figure it out."

Malcolm was confident of that. They'd figure out what Endicott was up too and put a stop to it.

Together.


	10. Chapter 10

He always considered Martin Whitly a malignant cancer.

All serial killers were, really.

Whitly just managed to prove himself more useful to him than many of the others he had in his employ. When he met Martin Whitly, he had been an up and coming cardiac surgeon. A man who found himself accepted into high society because of his marriage to Jessica Milton.

A little digging revealed him as a man with a dark side. One that wasn't afraid to experiment on humans in order to obtain the answers to his questions.

He thought Whitly a visionary. One who wasn't limited by things like ethics. Whitly's views on ethics were similar to his own. They limited the scope of what he, as a doctor, could accomplish. Whitly also believed boards and committees hindered research more than supported it.

Their partnership proved quite profitable.

Whitly tested the drugs he needed to get the FDA's approval on before he could offer samples to his eager clientele. He also helped him apply for the patents that allowed him to corner the pharmaceutical market.

As he wanted.

Whitly also aided him by testing the medical and surgical instruments his company designed. The ones he deemed superior to those already available were packaged and delivered to those willing to pay his price. Whitly also used his connections to get his equipment into medical schools.

In return, Whitly got to research to his hearts content. What exactly the man was researching didn't matter to him. Long as he received the data he needed, he could care less about what Whitly was doing and to whom.

Not that it mattered.

John Watkins took care of disposing the bodies once Whitly finished with them.

Everything had been going perfectly until Whitly decided he wanted to turn his son into a juvenile serial killer. He expressed his concerns to the good doctor, warned him of what could happen should little Malcolm inadvertently reveal daddy's hobby, and what he stood to lose if the police managed to connect them together.

The good doctor repeatedly assured him he had everything under control.

" _My boy will not reveal anything_ ," Whitly assured him. " _He would never betray his father_."

Nicholas hadn't believed him.

Children were unpredictable, uncontrollable, and completely unnecessary in his opinion.

That was why he never bothered having any.

He didn't believe Whitly had the boy under control as he claimed. Wanting to protect his interests, as well as his image, he told John Watkins to keep an eye on Malcolm.

" _If the boy becomes a problem_ ," he told Watkins, " _get rid of him_."

" _What about Whitly_?" Watkins rasped in his ear. " _Want me to get rid of him if he becomes a problem_?"

" _I'll handle Dr. Whitly myself_."

Watkins failed to take care of little Malcolm as he ordered. Nicholas didn't know what exactly happened on that camping trip, but clearly, something had happened.

Something involving Sophie.

The girl who thought she could steal from him and get away with it.

His hand curled around the armrest of his chair, squeezed so tightly his knuckles cracked.

For twenty years he allowed Whitly to thrive in his plush cell, content his secret was safe, that Sophie was dead and couldn't make trouble for him.

More fool he.

He only learned Sophie was alive after that foolish woman little Malcolm became so enamored of showed up and started asking questions about her sister.

The Girl In The Box.

Instead of lying, as serial killers so often did, Martin Whitly told her and Malcolm the truth.

He told them he allowed Sophie to live.

That he let her go.

_And that_ , Nicholas decided, _was the man's final mistake_.

Not only had Whitly gotten himself turned in by the son he swore would never betray him, he also jeopardized his operations by letting Sophie go. He further complicated matters by revealing the secrets Sophie shared with him with Malcolm and his girlfriend.

Martin Whitly was a tumor that now needed excising.

Before Nicholas was done with him, however, the good doctor would learn he couldn't go back on his word.

He already accomplished the first part of what he told Martin he'd do should he betray him. Jessica was well and truly enamored with him. He also ruined Malcolm's career and reputation by framing him for murder.

Not that he was done with the boy.

Nicholas had plans for him.

Plans that had been in motion for years. Why else had he used his contacts at the DOJ to get him fired from the FBI? Got him clearance to work with the NYPD as a consultant?

All that was left was the truly delectable Ainsley Whitly. Oh, he had plans for her. He'd start by discrediting her in the news field, ruining her reputation socially, and then offering to make it all go away if she agreed to marry him.

Martin Whitly needed to go.

His death served two purposes.

One, it made sure that the subject of Sophie was never brought up again.

And two?

It'd break little Malcolm completely.

Something John was supposed to have done when he kidnapped Malcolm at Christmas. Had he not chosen to play around, Malcolm would have broken, and been well on his way to becoming what Nicholas desired him: the perfect killer.

John failed, much like he had when he didn't succeed at killing little Malcolm before he could call the police and tattle on his daddy.

Well, killing Martin Whitly would fix both of those mistakes.

He just needed to handle one other little problem, first.

"Has Miss Corbin been located?"

He poised the question to the woman standing silently beside his desk. To the outside world, Mercy Sleeves was nothing more than the woman who had been serving him, faithfully, as his personal assistant for over two decades.

Yes, Mercy handled all of his day-to-day business affairs for him. She scheduled meetings with his partners and investors, handled his online media presence, and organized his social calendar so he attended all of the right events and galas.

He did have an image to project, after all.

Besides, it wouldn't do for a man of his wealth and status to attend the wrong functions or cultivate relationships with the wrong people.

However, Mercy also handled his private business affairs for him. She kept an eye on the handful of serial killers he employed for those situations where the finesse a contract killer tended to possess were unnecessary.

She also oversaw all shipments and deliveries. Made sure he only offered the best to his exclusive clientele. Mercy ensured the right palms were greased, the right screws twisted, and the right people employed. She also made sure his less... _savory_ investors and partners lived up to the promises they made him.

Any who didn't keep up their end of their bargain, well, Mercy sent one of the handful of contract killers he kept on retainer to deal with them.

Unless she chose to handle things herself, of course.

Mercy Sleeves was, after all, a contract killer herself.

Not quote as good as the Nightingale but leaps and bounds ahead of a moron like Eddie.

He'd only hire the best to protect him, after all.

"The girl arrived at the Whitly home yesterday evening." Dark eyes met his in the frosted glass of his office window. Glinted with secrets and amusement. "After making a stop at the Whitly boy's apartment to pick up clothing and other necessities for him."

"Did she now?" Nicholas found that particular little tidbit interesting. "And was anyone with her while she retrieved those particular things for Malcolm?"

Mercy's lip curled before one word left her mouth.

"Arroyo," she sneered. "He escorted her up and walked her back down."

Nicholas wasn't surprised. Lieutenant Arroyo was quickly becoming a thorn in his side. Not only was the man standing between him and Malcolm, but he was now keeping the Corbin girl from him.

He'd have to get rid of him. There was really no other choice. Not if he wanted to see little Malcolm finally become the killer his daddy always wanted him to become. _And not if I want to find out how much the girl knows about her daddy's investigation into the Surgeon._

Something she'd have no knowledge of if not for Ainsley Whitly telling her about it.

He thought he managed to convince the girl to quit investigating him during their discussion at the bar.

Clearly, his veiled threats had gone unheeded.

Something that didn't please him.

Before he and Ainsley were married he would have to make sure she understood that he expected her compliance in all things.

"Do you know where Miss Corbin was before scampering to her boyfriend's side?"

"She was upstate." A smirk curved Mercy's fleshy lips. "At her childhood home."

_Of course_ , Nicholas mused as he stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline. _Where else would the girl go but home_?

He had ordered Mercy to go and search the house for Ian Corbin's files on the Surgeon. Since she had not handed them over to him on her return led him to assume she had not found them. The question plaguing him now was if the Corbin girl had.

_And if so, what is she planning to do with them_?

The rumor of those files ultimately ended up getting Deputy Commissioner Ian Turner killed.

Sure, the world believed the Junkyard Killer killed Ian Turner to keep him from revealing the connection between him and the Surgeon.

Not so.

No, John killed Ian Turner on his orders. What choice did he have? Turner and his now former partner, Owen Shannon, had been closing in on Whitly prior to little Malcolm calling the police. After Whitly's arrest, Turner and Shannon continued to investigate, believing Whitly had someone getting rid of his victims.

Owen Shannon ruined himself, saving him the trouble.

Turner quietly continued to pursue his investigation. Nicholas hadn't cared until he enlisted the help of Ian Corbin.

A man nicknamed The Bulldog because once he got involved with a case?

He didn't stop until he solved it.

Corbin gave Nicholas serious pause. He wasn't someone money could buy or who'd bow to threats. His reputation was above reproach. Trying to muddy it would only risk exposure.

Thankfully, the man died before he could uncover anything.

Ian Turner continued to investigate, however. He refused to listen to reason. To threats. To demands. To keep him from revealing his connection to the serial killer ring operating right under the nose of the NYPD, Nicholas ordered John to get rid of him.

If only he thought to have Mercy check the man's will.

Ainsley would never have discovered the existence of these files and passed the information onto the Corbin girl.

"Do you know if Miss Corbin has found the files her father put together before his death on the Surgeon?"

"Ian Corbin's files on the Surgeon remain lost."

Nicholas nodded, pleased. "Good."

Those files needed to remain lost.

Which meant one thing: Sorcha Corbin needed to meet the same fate as Eve Blanchard.

_And I know just the man for the job._

"Mercy, I think it's time for John to redeem himself."

"And how should he do that?"

"By getting rid of the Corbin girl."

One brow arched.

"Are you sure you want to trust John with such a task?" Mercy shifted to face him. "He has failed you before. He could fail you again."

"Oh, I think this is one task that John can handle. If he can't..." His lips crooked upwards. "Well, then you have my full permission to retire him."

A slow, catlike smile curved Mercy's lips.

"I shall look forward to doing so."

He was sure she would.

"Leave me," he commanded. "I have some calls to make. A few favors to call in to get John released from his cage."

Mercy strolled from his office without a word. Every move reminded Nicholas of a jaguar stalking through the jungle in search of its prey.

_And if John Watkins fails me a third time, he will be her prey._

Nicholas found himself almost hoping he'd fail.

_Almost_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is extended from a piece I originally wrote in my Discord collection for the prompt malignant.


	11. Chapter 11

"Are you positive you can keep Gil and the others away long enough for me to talk with Edrisa about Eddie?"

Malcolm didn't doubt Sorcha's ability to create a scene.

He had seen her cause quite a few public disturbances over the years.

Never because she was covering for him after he illegally took off his ankle monitor so he could snuck in to speak with the medical examiner about the body of a man he was accused of killing, though.

Malcolm's hand spasmed at his side as the weight of what Sorcha was doing for him settled on his shoulders.

She was taking a huge risk by helping him sneak into the medical examiner's office to see Edrisa.

If he was caught, she could be charged with aiding and abetting.

A crime punishable either by a fine or time in prison.

Neither something he wanted to see happen. He thought about telling her to go back to his mother's and wait for him to avoid that possibility.

He discarded the thought as quickly as it came to him, however.

Sorcha would refuse to go and head inside with or without him.

"Trust me," she assured him as she joined him on the steps that led into the precinct. "I got this."

"I trust you." He blew out a heavy breath. "You're the only one I feel I can trust at the moment."

Her fingers brushed his in silent offer. He latched onto her hand. Gripped it as tightly as he would a rope tossed to pull him back to shore.

"You can trust Gil. And Dani and JT and Edrisa." Her fingers curled around his. "They have your back. They just have to play the roles assigned to them because they don't know who is on Endicott's payroll."

Part of Malcolm wanted to believe Sorcha.

To believe Gil, Dani, and JT were on his side.

That they didn't think him a murderer.

Like his father.

The other side of him couldn't forget the disappointed look on Gil's face as JT read him his rights and Dani clapped him in cuffs.

Nor could he forget the distrust and suspicion stamped on Dani's face after she and JT came to retrieve him from the holding cell they placed him in. Being stabbed hurt a lot less than seeing that mixture of doubt and hurt in her dark eyes.

JT was the only one who hadn't looked at him as is he had suddenly grown horns and a tail. Course, that was because he didn't have as far to fall in the eyes of the gruff detective. Things between him and JT — _Jordan, Jonathan, Jetter_? — started off rough. He thought they reached a point where they were more than just co-workers. More even than teammates.

_Friends_.

He had thought they were becoming friends.

_Wrong again_ , he thought, stomach curdling.

Not that it was any surprise.

Friends were not something he had the pleasure and privilege of.

Outside Sorcha.

"You ready to do this?"

Mal glanced again at the precinct sitting larger than life in front of him. Everything inside him hurt at being here on the steps to the place that became home after his firing from the FBI and knowing he couldn't simply walk inside.

No, he had to sneak into the building.

_Like a criminal._

"We'll fix this, Mal." Sorcha's thumb drifted over his knuckles. Stalwart support and silent comfort. Each desperately needed at that moment. "I promise you that we are going to find a way to get your life back."

"I believe you."

He did.

He really did.

They'd find a way to prove he hadn't killed Eddie in a fit of rage and grief.

That the blood on the dead man wasn't his.

That Endicott framed him to keep him from uncovering his secrets and exposing them to the world.

"Let's do this then."

Malcolm gave a small nod before he walked with her into the building.

...

The Whitly kid entered the police precinct with the Corbin girl a little after eleven. What the kid was even doing there given the fact he was on house-arrest puzzled Thomas.

Not that the reason why overly mattered in the end.

He hadn't been hired to figure out why the Whitly kid did the things he did. Way above his pay grade and outside the scope of his training.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder at what drove the kid to do something so damn stupid.

Course, the kid made his career out of doing high risk and dangerous things.

It was one of the reasons why the bureau fired his ass.

_And why the higher ups are constantly climbing all over Arroyo._

Thomas Gray set the digital camera he had used to snap some photographs of the couple in the passenger seat so he could enter the time they walked into the precinct into his little notebook. It joined a dozen of other times and things he had jotted down since being hired to follow the Whitly kid and his girlfriend.

This job was by far the easiest one Endicott had ever given him. Follow the kid and his girlfriend around, take some photos of them, and make note of what they were doing, and with whom.

Easy, peasy.

Thomas finished marking down the time and dropped the notepad next to his camera. reached for his phone. His boss made it clear that he wanted to know not only when the kid slipped his ankle monitor but where he went.

" _Endicott_."

"Kid and his girlfriend are here at Major Crimes."

There was a small, speculative sound from the man on the other end of the phone. Thomas didn't much like Nicholas Endicott. The only reason he started working for him was because his daughter wanted to go to graduate school.

Something that cost money.

A _lot_ of money.

More than a man like him could make as a cop, in fact.

Loans, scholarships, and grants would cover books, lab fees, and most but not all her tuition costs.

Sure, Mackenzie planned to work to help pay for some of her expenses, but part-time at a diner would only cover so much.

They needed money.

Working for Nicholas Endicott was the solution to their dilemma.

Wasn't like he was being asked to kill the kid or his girlfriend.

Just follow them around.

Take some pictures.

No harm, no foul.

" _Don't let them out of your sight_."

"Of course." It was Endicott's standard order whenever he called to report on the kid or his girlfriend's doings. "Anything else?"

" _Notify me as soon as they leave the precinct_." Again, his typical orders. Follow the two, take some pictures, jot down where they went and who they talked too. " _And let me know where they go next_."

"Alright."

The call ended. Thomas placed his phone back in its stand on his dash and sat back to wait for the two to emerge from the building.

As far as job assignments went, this one was easy. Only, Thomas started to suspect there was something more to this job than met the eye.

Not that he'd dig into it.

No, no.

Nicholas Endicott wasn't the sort of man to cross.

He had powerful allies and a host of contract killers at his disposal.

None of whom Thomas wanted to find himself on the opposite end of.

He saw what happened to those who did.

It was enough to convince him to do as he was told.

_No harm, no foul_ , he told himself as he waited.

Easy, peasy.

Lemon squeezy.

...

JT exited his cubicle at the same time Bright-Light strolled into the bullpen. He didn't even need to look at her to know she was a woman on a mission.

A Bright-related one was his guess.

"Cavalry has arrived in ripped jeans and one of Bright's less expensive shirts."

Dani glanced up from the footage she had been surfing through on her computer, one eyebrow arched.

"What?"

JT jerked his head in the direction of the woman making her way in their direction. Dark eyes briefly met his. Burned with questions and speculation. One brow tilted in silent question.

One he didn't need a fancy degree in psychology to figure out.

Was he on Bright's side or did he believe the bullshit going on?

He didn't but had to admit the stack of evidence against Bright's scrawny ass wasn't looking good.

"Got five feet, five inches of trouble coming our way."

Dani leaned up to look over the divider. Soon as she saw who he was talking about, her brow furrowed. Wasn't like JT couldn't guess why she wasn't happy to see Light-Bright.

The bullpen still echoed with the remnants of the heated discussions Collette Swanson and Sorcha Corbin engaged in over Bright following his kidnapping by John Watkins.

"What is she doing here?"

JT shrugged.

"No clue."

And he wasn't about to tempt fate by going over to ask her, either. Marriage taught him one lesson: when a woman walked with a purpose?

It was best to stay out of her way.

"Did Gil say anything to you about her coming in this morning?"

"Nope." JT reached for the half empty cup of coffee on his desk. "And Boss ain't come in yet so we can't go and ask him."

Not that JT would go and ask Gil. Way he saw it? Mini-Bright being at the precinct could either be a good thing or a bad thing.

He was hoping for a good thing.

They damn sure needed it.

"She shouldn't be here." Dani pushed back from her desk. "She needs to leave. _Now_."

"Don't know if she was called in." JT watched as she stopped to talk with a rookie officer. _Brannigan_ , he recalled the officer's name being. One of Bright-Lite's cousins. "Can't kick her out if she was asked to come in."

"She can't help with this investigation."

"Why not?"

"She's too close to Bright."

"Yeah, that's my point."

"No." Dani shook her head. "Not this time. We can't jeopardize the case."

"Can you think of anyone else who is gonna figure out how to get Bright's skinny ass outta this mess?"

"She's not objective."

"Oh, I disagree, Detective Powell." Bright-Lite's voice dripped honey. "See, I think I'm quite objective, actually."

Dani turned to look at her, a calm, but determined expression on her face.

"You are blinded by your personal feelings for Bright and can't see he did it."

"My personal feelings for Malcolm are exactly why I know he _didn't_ do it." Mini-Bright folded her arms across her chest. A battle stance if JT ever saw one. He moved back into his cubicle, not wanting to get caught in the fight brewing between the two. "If you weren't blinded by your massive trust issues, you'd see that for yourself."

"The facts—"

"Are completely made up." She cocked her head to the side. "Something you'd have figured out if you were _objectively_ looking at them and interpreting them as they should be rather than how Nicholas Endicott wants you too."

"There's no other way to interpret the evidence." Frustration throbbed in Dani's voice. Echoed in JT's heart. "Blood can't be—"

"Fabricated?" A small, tight smile curved Light-Bright's lips. "Oh, now, Detective we both know that's false. Plenty of cases where blood evidence has been manipulated to seal a conviction against a particular suspect."

"And hair fibers?" Dani's lips pursed. "How do you explain those getting on Eddie?"

"Well, I'm no detective here," sarcasm dripped from every word, "but I'd say the hair fibers were taken from Malcolm's hairbrush here at the station and planted."

"You think someone here broke into Bright's locker and stole his hairbrush?"

"Most definitely." Bright-Lite shifted her gaze to JT. "Hair follicles don't lie."

"So." Dani's tone was cool, controlled. There was a bite beneath it JT knew all too well. "You think a cop planted evidence."

"No, I don't." Stark disapproval furrowed Light-Bright's brow. "I think a cop broke into his locker and stole the hairbrush. Which they gave to—"

"Someone at the hospital who planted it," JT finished for her. "Makes sense."

"I'd look into those working the floor the night Eddie died." Mini-Bright turned away. "But I'm not looking at this objectively." She started to walk towards Gil's office. "I'll wait in Gil's office for him."

JT looked at Dani once Bright-Lite was out of earshot.

"And you said Mini-Bright couldn't help with the investigation," he couldn't resist saying.

Luckily, his phone rang at that moment.

Not that he wasn't aware of the dirty look Dani aimed at the back of his head.

Nor did he miss her quiet, "Dick."

He just wisely chose not to tempt fate twice in a row.

"Tarmel," he said into the receiver.


	12. Chapter 12

Gil sensed trouble brewing the second he walked into the precinct. The air around him crackled with tension.

The kind that only happened when the kid was around.

He swept the bullpen with narrowed eyes, half-expecting to find Bright fluttering around with his usual exuberance, a sheepish grin, and a reason for why he broke out of house arrest to come to the one place he shouldn't have.

The kid wasn't there.

_Thankfully_.

Gil couldn't ignore, however, the sour note in the pit of his stomach at Bright's not being there to help them work this case. _He should be here_ kept rolling through his mind. The kid should be sitting at the desk outside his office and putting together a profile for them to work from.

He wasn't, though, because of one person: Nicholas Endicott.

A man out to destroy the Whitly family because of the other man Gil loathed with every fiber of his being: Martin Whitly.

The whys of it all still made no sense to Gil.

So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours that he hadn't had a chance to really process everything Bright told him.

Not that it mattered.

Endicott was a monster that needed stopping.

_And we will stop him._

There was no doubt in Gil's mind about that.

They'd stop Nicholas Endicott before he could cause any more damage to Bright or the rest of the Whitly family.

With a weary sigh, and a strong want for a hot cup of coffee, Gil started to make his way towards his office. He was about to issue a greeting to Dani and JT when JT jerked his thumb in the direction of his office.

"Bright-Lite's waiting for you."

That brought Gil up short. What would Sorcha be doing there? He'd expressly told her to stick to Bright's side. To not allow him... _of course_. His brow furrowed as the reason why Sorcha was there occurred to him. He glanced sharply at JT.

"Is Bright with her?"

"His skinny ass is sitting at home according to the last ping from his ankle monitor."

Gil doubted that. Where one of his wayward and willful children was?

The other was never too far behind.

_I should have gone upstairs and made sure Bright was in there._

That he was pouting in his room as...

_Jessica said he was._

Gil swallowed a groan and a few choice curses. _Duped_ , he realized. He had been duped by not one Whitly, but two.

_Three_ , he corrected as he shot a look at the woman he could make out through the slits in his blinds. If Sorcha was going to toss her lot in with Bright and his mother than he'd count her as one of them.

"This family..." he muttered as he wiped a hand over his face. "I swear if they ever did what I told them..."

"You'd die of shock if they ever did what you told them to do."

Gil huffed a laugh. "You're probably right." His eyes narrowed as he saw Sorcha pull out her phone to check it. _A message from Bright_ , he assumed. "Should have put an ankle monitor on her."

He was tempted to do just that, in fact. Really put a wrench into whatever the two were up too.

Not that they wouldn't figure out a way around it.

_Like aways._

"You thinking Bright's slipped his ankle monitor?"

Thinking? No. More like knew he had slipped his ankle monitor. Something he conveyed to Dani and JT.

"She's here to distract us so Bright can do whatever the hell it is he shouldn't be doing."

JT heaved a sigh that sounded as exhausted as Gil felt. It had been a long forty-eight hours for all of them between Eve being identified as the woman found in the river to Bright being arrested on suspicion of the murder of her killer.

"Knowing Bright, he's heading down to talk with Edrisa about Eddie's body."

"Makes sense," Dani said as she stood. "He'd need to talk with Edrisa if he wants to find out how they got his blood onto Eddie's body."

JT nodded in the direction of his office.

"Mini-Bright gave us a plausible explanation for how the blood got on Eddie."

Gil wasn't surprised to find out that Sorcha offered a theory on how the blood and fibers got onto Eddie. He had been anticipating she'd offer one after she got over being annoyed at them arresting the kid.

"A _theory_ ," Dani stressed. "Not concrete proof."

"I'll take a theory at this point." Gil turned to head towards his office. "We can check out a theory."

They couldn't check out nothing.

Which is what they had: a whole lot of nothing piled up in front of Bright.

"You want us to go down and see if Bright's skinny ass is where it don't belong?"

"We'll go down and bust him after I talk with his co-conspirator."

Because while Gil fully believed Sorcha was there to distract them while Bright spoke with Edrisa, he also suspected she was there for an ulterior reaaon.

He just had to find out what it was.

Then he'd consider slapping an ankle monitor and a tracking device on her before returning her and Bright to his mother's house.

_Where they'll damn sure stay if I have to sit on top of them to see they do it._

He opened his office door right as Sorcha slid her phone back in the pocket of her jeans. Seeing her without makeup, her hair tossed up into a ponytail, in jeans and one of Bright's shirts sent Gil back fifteen years.

Solving problems had been so much simpler when they'd been eighteen.

A drive in the LeMan's, gelato or a hot pretzel, walking through Central Park, a late night phone call, even something simple as a hug worked to get through whatever crisis the two found themselves.

Bright a suspect in a homicide wasn't something he could solve as easily as he could test anxiety, relationship issues or the multitude of other growing pains they experienced.

"I know Bright is downstairs talking with Edrisa."

If Gil thought that'd get Sorcha to confirm his suspicions about her and Bright working together on this bit of subterfuge?

He was sadly mistaken.

That glacier calm didn't melt even a tiny bit. One eyebrow arched and a small smirk screwed up one corner of her mouth. If not for the fact they were in it up to their eyeballs, he'd have been impressed with how good Sorcha's poker face was.

He'd also have booked a weekend in Atlantic City.

"Is he?" Cool, calm, disinterested. "And why do you think Malcolm is downstairs and talking with Doctor Tanaka?"

"Because you are here in my office."

A slight roll of the shoulders. A tilt of the head. A mildly interested expression on her face.

_She should have gone with Bright to Quantico_ , Gil thought as he made his way over to his desk. _They'd have made a formidable team._

Bright with his chaotic and frenetic unconventional approach to handling suspects and Sorcha with her cool, calm rational way of figuring out how best to deal with situations.

These two working together to stop Endicott was his ace in the hole. He expected them to find the pieces to this puzzle and align them so they made sense.

He just needed them to do it smartly and safely.

"I'm here for my own reasons and not because Mal needed to speak with Doctor Tanaka."

Gil took a seat behind his desk. "And what reasons are those?"

"Ian Turner."

One of his brows winged up. "Ian Turner?" That wasn't a name he expected her to say. "What about him?"

"He left me something in his will."

His other eyebrow joined the first. "Ian Turner left you something in his will?"

Sorcha nodded. "Something given to him by my father."

"Your father?" Gil frowned. "I wasn't aware Ian Turner knew your father."

Not that it should have surprised him they knew each other. Ian Corbin had been a cop before joining the FBI. And Turner came up through the ranks when Hoyt Brannigan was still chief of detectives.

"I knew they knew each other." Sorcha sat back in her chair. "Dad worked a few cases with him in the 90s and early 2000's. I wasn't aware they were still working together, though."

Neither had Gil. He assumed, like everyone, Ian Turner quit working cases once he became chief of detectives. That had been wrong, of course. Ian Turner had continued working on one case.

One that eventually got him killed.

"What case were they working?"

"The Surgeon."

Gil's brow knit. "The Surgeon? Why were they working a closed case?"

"Because Ian Turner always believed Martin Whitly was working with a partner."

"John Watkins." Which they now knew after Bright and Owen Shannon figured out the connection between the Junkyard Killer and the Surgeon. "We know he and Martin Whitly were working together."

"Well, Dad also believed he was working for someone." Sorcha dropped her tone an octave. A conspiratorial whisper. "Someone with lots of money and a lot of influence."

"Working for someone with money and..." The answer dawned on Gil. "Endicott."

"Yes."

"Your dad was investigating Nicholas Endicott before he died?"

She nodded. "He gave his files to Ian Turner to continue the investigation right before he died."

Pieces of that puzzle he hoped she and Bright would find fell into place.

"Turner wasn't investigating who was working with the Surgeon," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "He was working out who the Surgeon and the Junkyard Killer worked for."

"I think he figured out Endicott was the connection between Malcolm's father and the Junkyard Killer," Sorcha said. "And Endicott dispatched Watkins to shut him up before he could reveal it."

"Makes more sense than Watkins murdering him to keep him from revealing he was the Junkyard Killer."

"Especially since Watkins was the cleanup man while he and Martin Whitly were busy killing people."

_And grooming Malcolm to become a killer like them,_ Gil added silently.

Watkins was just as guilty as Martin Whitly for the trauma that left Bright psychologically damaged.

Something he vowed to see both pay for even if it killed him.

"Can we prove Nicholas Endicott was behind Ian Turner's murder?"

"I think we can prove that Nicholas Endicott has been behind a number of unsolved murders over the years."

Gil's eyebrows shot up. "How?"

"My father's files."

"Your father's files?" He frowned his confusion. "Don't you have them?"

"No." Sorcha blew out a small breath. "Ian Turner had a feeling Endicott would send one of his contract killers after him so he hid my father's files."

"How do you know Endicott doesn't have them?"

"Because Turner left them to me in his will."

Gil's heart stopped. "He left them to you?"

Placing a huge bulls-eye on her back in the process, Gil realized, stomach twisting into knots.

"With a note in his will that said he buried the files where it all began."

"Where it all began?" His brow furrowed. "It began at the Whitly home."

_With a child finding a girl locked inside a trunk._

"I thought that, too, but Ainsley and I searched the house and cellar and we didn't find anything."

"You and Ainsley?"

"She's who discovered Ian Turner left the files to me."

_Of course, she did_ , Gil thought as he ran a hand over a face. Nothing this family did surprised him anymore.

Well, _almost_ nothing.

"Does Bright know about these files?"

"Not yet." Sorcha pushed to her feet and walked to the window. "I plan on telling him tonight."

Gil didn't have to wonder at what the kid's reaction would be once she told him about these files. Stopping Bright from finding those files would be about as difficult as stopping a runaway train under full power.

_No_ , he amended as he stared at the pile of paperwork on his desk. _Stopping the train would be easier._

There'd be no stopping Bright.

"Do you have any idea where Turner might have hidden them?"

"One." Her expression became grim. "And you won't like the where any more than I do."

Gil had a feeling she'd say that.


	13. Chapter 13

Malcolm found the morgue empty when he entered it. He had no idea where Edrisa and the rest of her staff could be. It being empty was a good thing, though. The fewer people he encountered, the better.

It meant less explaining he'd need to do if he found himself discovered by the wrong person.

_It also lessens the chances of me getting caught by Gil._

That, most of all, was what he wanted to avoid. If it was just him who'd get in trouble would be one thing. It wasn't, though. It was Gil, Dani, JT, Edrisa, Sorcha, Leonard, and his mother who'd be in the most trouble if he was caught having slipped his ankle monitor.

What choice did he have, though?

The only person who could explain the DNA evidence found on Eddie was Edrisa. Granted, he could have called her and asked her what he needed to know. He could even have invited her to come to his mother's so they could talk face-to-face. There was no doubt in his mind that Edrisa would have been agreeable to either offer.

It just felt... _wrong_.

As if he was abusing her friendship to serve his own agenda.

Talking to her in the morgue made it seem more professional. Courteous. A callback to when they were two colleagues discussing the evidence of a case.

_We still are discussing the facts of this case_ , he reasoned as he slowly made his way over to the table where Eddie's body lay. _I'm just was the primary suspect_.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the man responsible for Eve's death. Nothing about his body explained how _his_ blood got on Eddie. The majority of his physical injuries could be linked back to his attempt on his father's life.

Another order issued by Nicholas Endicott.

Only, this one didn't turn out the way he intended.

Malcolm's hand spasmed as images from the fight between his father and Eddie surfaced.

The garrote around his father's throat.

His father struggling before slowly going limp.

The fear and desperation that shot through him that compelled him to cry out, "Dad, no!" like some ten-year-old child.

A switch flipped on inside Martin Whitly at that moment.

He went from prey to predator after Malcolm addressed him as Dad instead of Dr. Whitly. He overpowered a shocked Eddie, pinning him to the floor before sinking his thumbs into the man's eye-sockets.

No thought, no hesitation.

The feral gleam in his father's eyes while he gouged the hitman's eyes out imprinted itself on his mind.

Another in a long line of traumas.

One more nightmare for him to have on repeat as he tried to sleep.

A movie theater that played a never ending horror movie. That's what he saw his mind as.

A movie theater that never closed.

That never stopped playing the same movies over and over.

A theater that had a new movie goer joining him for the show.

Malcolm lifted his head as Eve drifted close to him.

She was one more sin he had to atone for. Another in a long line of bodies who'd follow him into the afterlife. Who haunted him awake and asleep. At least he could bury her. Give her a marker to remind the world she had once been a living, breathing, vibrant human being.

There were twenty-three other bodies they couldn't bury because nobody knew where they were or what their names might be.

Nobody but his father, anyway.

_And John Watkins_ , he added as Eve slid her hand over his, the coldness of her flesh chilling him to the bone.

Watkins also knew where those bodies were buried.

What those names were.

Not that he'd tell him or anyone else about where they were.

_Or who they were._

"He deserved to die for what he did." Her fingers trailed over his arm. Left a trail of ice that curled its way to his heart. "To me. To us."

"There was no us." Malcolm stepped away from her. Knowing he couldn't get far. Knowing she wouldn't let him get far. Not until he repaid his debt to her. "You saw to that when you broke up with me via voicemail."

"I was going to come back." Her eyes were soft, pleading. "Didn't you realize that I always planned to come back?"

"You mean you would have come back when you needed help with protecting your sister."

"Malcolm…"

"No." Bitterness melted the ice around his heart. Stirred the miasma burning in the pit of his belly. Quaked in the fingers he curled into fists. "You used me. Took advantage of me. Said you had real feelings for me but walked out the moment you had what you needed from me."

"I had to find my sister."

"I would have helped you find her."

"It wasn't for you to do."

"I had as much a need to find her as you did."

"I was trying to save you from more pain."

Another lie to go with the dozens of others she fed him the last few weeks.

Lies he allowed her to tell him because he was hopelessly pathetic.

Craving the forbidden.

Wanting the flash and burn.

Needing the pain like an alcoholic needs one more drink.

Eve trapped him in her spindly web by convincing him she had real feelings for him.

That she accepted him for who and what he was.

All lies.

He had been foolish and shortsighted.

Believing he could have a normal life.

_I had a normal life_ , he realized as Eve placed a cold hand on his shoulder. _I had someone who did accept me for me. Who hasn't ever lied to me. And I tossed it away. Tossed her away._

For what?

Nothing.

Malcolm blew out a breath. Blame, excuses, reasons, none of it changed what happened to Eve. None of it changed how it was Nicholas Endicott who had this done to her. It was best to bury it all and go on as he always did.

Work the case.

Catch the bad guy.

Rinse and repeat.

"Oh, Mr. Bright!" Surprise tinged Edrisa's voice. "I didn't realize you were here."

Malcolm turned and smiled at the medical examiner.

"Hello, Edrisa."

Curiosity replaced her shock at finding him there.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to talk with you about the blood you found on Eddie."

"Oh!" Her eyes popped wide behind the rims of her glasses. "Well, you know that..."

"I'm asking you to reveal information to the prime suspect in this case?" Malcolm nodded. "I know. And I'm sorry I'm putting you in this position. I wouldn't if there was any other way. I have to prove that the blood is not mine."

"Oh, uhm." Edrisa pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. "That is going to be difficult to prove, I'm afraid. The lab results say it is your blood." She made a face. "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be." Malcolm gave her a gentle smile. "You can only follow the evidence."

"I know you didn't do this."

So did Malcolm. Knowing and proving it was too different things, though.

"Do you think it possible that the blood was faked?"

"Faked?" Edrisa cocked her head to the side, considering. "As in someone took a DNA sample and created a blood profile with it?"

"Yes."

"It's... possible." Her brow creased. "But how would they have had the time to plant the sample on Eddie?"

"That's the question I still need to answer."

Edrisa opened her mouth to say something but voices outside stopped her.

"See?" Malcolm flinched as he recognized Sorcha's droll tone. "I told you Malcolm isn't here."

"His skinny ass could be hiding."

"Malcolm doesn't like small, dark spaces so the mortuary cabinets are out."

Malcolm swallowed a curse and glanced around for a place to hide.

"Over there!" Edrisa pointed. "You can hide in the space between the two cabinets."

Malcolm darted over to where she indicated a second before JT entered the morgue. Dani followed a step behind, her brow creased, and mouth thinned into a hard line.

"She's lying about Bright."

JT heaved a soft grunt. "You see Bright's crazy ass anywhere?"

"Doesn't mean he's not." The distrust in Dani's voice, on her face, hurt. Not that he could fault her for how she felt. The evidence against him was overwhelming. "Bright's too emotional right now. Too unpredictable."

"Yeah, he is," JT agreed with a nod. "And being that way is what makes Bright good at his job."

"It's also what makes him good for this."

JT half-turned towards her as Edrisa made a small, distressed sound. "It's also what this Endicott is counting on everyone thinking. He wants us doubting Bright."

"I know." Dani sighed. "And I hate thinking he did this. It's what the evidence says. And we have to follow the evidence."

Gil entered the morgue then.

Seeing him hurt.

One bright ball of pain in the middle of his chest.

The last time Malcolm had seen Gil had been when SWAT busted into his loft so they could arrest him. He'd never forget the look of disappointment on his face or the way his voice throbbed as he told him he was under arrest.

_Sorcha says he believes me. That he knows I didn't kill Eddie. That this is all an act to make sure he and the others don't get kicked off the case._

Malcolm wanted to believe her.

Wanted to think this was all an act designed to fool the man orchestrating everything from behind the scenes.

He just... couldn't.

It'd destroy him if he allowed himself to believe and it turned out he was wrong.

Like always.

"You send Bright-Lite home?"

"Yes." Gil heaved a weary sigh. "For all the good it'll do." JT snorted a laugh as Gil looked at Edrisa. "What've you got for us, Edrisa?"

"The bruising on Eddie's neck indicates he was held down. Perhaps with the assailant's forearm. That's not the cause of death, though." She clutched the file she held tighter to her chest. "Trace cotton fibers confirm he was smothered with a hospital pillow. Which, I mean, right there

you know it wasn't Bright because where's the pizzazz in a pillow?"

A small smile curved Malcolm's lips at Edrisa's defense. She was the one person, outside of Sorcha, he could be sure believed in his innocence.

"Suffocation required our killer to get close," Dani murmured, her brow creased. "This was intimate. Personal, even." She looked at Gil and then JT. "This fits with Bright. Our vic was tied to the murder of his girlfriend and an attempt on his father's life."

Every word stuck the knives in his heart deeper. He couldn't deny her profile was spot-on. If he was the one making it up, he'd have said the exact same thing.

"Finding Bright's DNA on Eddie doesn't help our boy either."

Malcolm wanted to leap out and tell them it wasn't his blood on Eddie. That it had been planted on him. Not that he needed to worry. Edrisa again had his back.

"You're wrong." She let out a small, pained sound. "I mean, you're right, but you're also wrong. You're so... so wrong."

"I hope that we are, too," Dani said. "But... if Bright was here, he would lay out the same profile."

Which was exactly what Endicott was counting on.

He wanted the profile to point to him.

Finger him as the one and only suspect.

Discredit him.

Ruin him.

What Endicott planned after he destroyed him remained a mystery.

One more puzzle he needed to solve before he could move on with his life.

"Everybody, take a breath," Gil said. "Focus on the job." Words he told Malcolm a thousand times. Words he did his best to live by. "Thanks, Edrisa. We'll circle back."

They left the morgue then, leaving Malcolm with his wildly chaotic thoughts, the ghost of the woman at the heart of the mess he was in, and desperately wishing Sorcha was there to help ground him.

"What did you hear?"

"Enough."

"And to think, I was just about to start a meaningful female friendship with Dani."

Edrisa let out a small sigh. "Maybe."

"Her profile's correct."

Much as he hated to admit it. Edrisa shot him an incredulous look.

"Don't tell me you think you did this?"

"No." Malcolm shook his head. "I've been framed. What I can't figure out is the DNA." His brow furrowed as he studied Eddie's body. "How did they get my skin and blood under Eddie's nails?"

"Maybe the killer planted it on him after the murder."

Malcolm supposed that was possible.

"Planting DNA isn't like planting a gun," he said softly, thoughtfully. "It would take time. The kind you don't have in a busy hospital." He looked over at her. "When did you swab his nails?"

"Back here at the lab."

"I take it you trust your team?"

"I do," Edrisa affirmed with a nod. "With my life." A small smile curved her lips. "They're also super fun at karaoke."

"So," Malcolm murmured thoughtfully. "That just leaves Corbell Laboratories."

Edrisa nodded.

"They processed the results."

_An outside lab_ , he realized. _A place where we have no control._

"What do we know about them?"

"Well, we do most of our work through them. They've worked the city since the '90s." A frown puckered her brow. "There's no way a single employee could swap out the results."

"I'm not worried about an employee." The niggle of suspicion curling through Malcolm grew in intensity. "I want to know who owns it."

Because he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

"All I can find is a number for their outside counsel."

"That's it." Excitement streaked through Malcolm as the pieces finally connected together. He turned to leave. "I have to go."

Edrisa stopped him by crying out, "Bright!"

Malcolm had less than three seconds to prepare himself before she launched herself at him, latching onto him like an octopus. He stood frozen, unsure what to do or how to respond. The only logical thing he could think of was exactly what he did. He cupped the back of Edrisa's head with one hand and folded his other arm around her.

"Sorry," she whispered against his shoulder. "Don't die."

"I won't." He leaned back to give her a reassuring smile. "I promise."

He left then to find Sorcha.

Because they had another stop to make.

This time to see the man his mother called, "The Devil."


	14. Chapter 14

"You're positive this Sterling will know who owns Corbell Laboratories?"

"Sterling is the outside counsel for Corbell," Malcolm replied as he stopped at the crosswalk with her. He felt Sorcha's gaze on him but his remained fixed on the building sitting across the street from them. The fact that the man his mother called The Devil represented a man who could oust Lucifer from Hell wasn't lost on him. "Sterling will definitely know who owns it."

"Will he tell you is the thing."

Malcolm blew out a heavy breath. That question had been plaguing him since leaving Edrisa.

"Willingly? No."

It'd be easier to get blood from a turnip than a lawyer like Sterling. Sorcha shifted closer and dropped her voice to a conspirator's whisper.

"You're hoping to trip him up enough to get him to indicate that Endicott owns part or all of Corbell Laboratories, aren't you?"

"Either that," he said, sending her a small smile, "or someone we can connect to Endicott."

She was, Malcolm noted, concerned and anxious. Understandably so.

"This is a dangerous game we're playing, Mal."

"I know it is." His fingers bumped hers. Silently offering comfort. And asking for it. "What other choice do we have, though?"

"I don't like you going in there alone." Her fingers slid between his. "You don't have Gil or Dani or JT to back you up here. You don't even have a weapon to protect yourself should you find yourself in trouble."

"I won't get into any trouble."

Sorcha's snort said she didn't believe him. _Rightfully so_ , he realized as a messenger on a bicycle stopped next to him.

"Let me call Uncle Jamie," she offered. "His precinct is only a block away."

"If you call him, he will have to come and arrest me for breaking house arrest." He smiled at her sigh. "And then he'd arrest you as my accomplice."

"Fine," she grumbled. "Let me call Uncle Hoyt then."

"I'd like to keep our list of accomplices to a minimum." They were already more than he intended. "If possible."

"Any one of us will willingly go to jail if it means keeping you from being prosecuted for a murder you didn't commit."

"I'll be..." he broke off, grimaced. "It's better this way," he said, instead. "Trust me."

Sorcha hummed a soft laugh.

"Learning about how that fine word doesn't work finally, are we?"

"Yes." The light changed. Malcolm let the messenger cross, first. "It doesn't sound as good out loud as it does inside my head."

"No, it doesn't," she agreed as she started across the street with him. "Least of all with how dangerous this is." Her fingers trembled against his own. A sign of how nervous she was. "Endicott is coming at you with everything he has. I wouldn't put it past him to hire a contract killer to kill you."

"I don't think he wants me dead."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I don't know." He moved out of the way of a group of businessmen hurrying in the opposite direction. "There's more to this than we know, though. A deeper purpose. Something we're missing that explains why Endicott has done everything he has."

"He's trying to prevent his serial killer ring from being exposed."

"His serial killer ring?" Malcolm stopped and turned to her, one brow arched. "What are you talking about?"

"I told Gil I'd tell you about this..." Sorcha grimaced and pulled him over to a quiet corner. "I just figured it was something we could talk about after we got back to your mother's."

Panic and dread curdled in his already sour stomach. Mingled with the bite of betrayal that burned in his blood. Malcolm ordered himself to calm down, be patient, give Sorcha a chance to tell him what she already told Gil.

"Tell me about what?"

Indecision warred with uncertainty on her face. Malcolm was about to ask her again when she blew out a breath and said, "My father was working with Ian Turner before his death."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. _That_ , he realized as he stared into her dark, expressive eyes, _isn't what I expected her to tell me._

"He was working with Ian Turner..." he said slowly. "Why?"

"Dad always believed your father had more than twenty-three victims."

"I know he did." He and Ian Corbin had talked many times about there being more than twenty-three bodies to the Surgeon's name. "He and I talked about it a lot after I graduated Quantico. You and I talked about it."

"Yes, but what I didn't know was that Ian Turner asked my father to join him on his investigation into the Surgeon's victims."

"Turner was trying to uncover who the rest of my father's victims were?"

"That," she said with a small nod, "and they were looking into Martin Whitly having a partner."

"Which we now know was John Watkins."

"Correct." Sorcha shifted closer to Malcolm and dropped her voice an octave. "However, Dad may have uncovered that your father and Watkins were part of a serial killer ring operating here in New York."

"A serial killer ring? Operating here in New York?" Excitement drummed in Malcolm's veins as more of the pieces started to come together inside his mind. "Are you sure?"

"Turner's letter was pretty specific about how they had isolated a serial killer ring to here in New York."

"What else did his letter say?"

"That Dad linked twenty serial killers operating in the 70s, 80's, 90's and early 2000's to this ring."

Malcolm was floored.

Not that Ian Corbin worked a case despite his cancer prognosis. That was the type of man he was.

No, what astounded him was how he never told anyone about what he uncovered.

"Why didn't he turn what he found out over to the bureau?"

"Because he gave his files to Ian Turner so he could continue gathering information." She blew out a breath. "My guess is Ian Turner figured out the man behind the serial killer ring when he connected the Junkyard Killer to your father."

"Meaning Endicott had him murdered by Watkins to keep him from revealing his involvement in this ring."

"That's what I'm thinking, yes."

"Where are your father's files? They weren't in that storage shed that Owen Shannon took me too."

Where they discovered Paul Lazar was John Watkins.

A man they tracked to his grandmother's house.

Where Owen Shannon got his throat slit and Malcolm kidnapped and tortured. The area where Watkins stabbed him throbbed as memories of those twelve hours he spent in the dungeon Watkins and his father took their victims too played through his mind. Only Sorcha's hand in his kept him from spiraling back into that deep, dark web.

"Well, the files weren't in the shed because Turner knew they wouldn't be safe there."

"He was right," Malcolm said as a group of people exited Sterling's building. "They wouldn't have been safe in that shed. Endicott would have sent someone to investigate it soon as he became aware of its existence."

"I'm pretty sure Endicott knows about Dad's files."

"How?"

"I don't know how," she admitted with a tiny sigh. "I just have a feeling he does based on the warning Turner put in his letter to me."

"Wait." Malcolm's eyes popped wide as realization dawned, brighter and hotter than the sun shining down on them. "Turner left your father's files to _you_?"

"Yes, he did." A delivery man entered the building, momentarily distracting them. Danger was all around them. Being cautious, trusting nobody outside their immediate circle, suspecting strangers of working for Nicholas Endicott was the only way they'd stay alive. "There's just one problem."

"You don't have the files," Malcolm guessed with a small sigh. "Right?"

"No." Frustration simmered in that solitary word. "Turner says he put them somewhere safe."

"And you have no idea where that could be."

"Not a one." Her mouth turned down at the corners. "All I have is a clue as to where the files _might_ be."

"What's the clue?"

"The files are somewhere only I would be able to figure out because of the connection it has to you, me, and Dad."

One place jumped out at Malcolm immediately.

"Your parent's house upstate."

Sorcha shook her head, though.

"Sean and I were there last week to make some repairs and paint. The files are not there."

Malcolm pondered places Ian Turner could have hidden those files as an ambulance went screaming by.

"What about that beach house your Dad rented every summer in Long Island?"

Some of his favorite memories came from the weeks spent at that beach house. Even his mother relaxed and allowed herself to enjoy being away from the headaches of Manhattan and high society.

Nobody cared they were the Whitly's there on Long Island. Nobody associated them with the Surgeon or his twenty-three victims. They were just a family looking to get away from the city for a few weeks.

"Uncle Hoyt suggested that when I text him earlier."

A grin tugged at Malcolm's lips.

"Did he also tell you to go back to my mother's house?"

"No, he said I'm as hardheaded as Dad, and wouldn't listen, anyway, so I'm to be careful." Malcolm's heart lightened at seeing the stress lines around her eyes and lips soften. The last few weeks hadn't been easy for either of them. Her regaining some of that spark he loved eased the tension creeping along the back of his neck. "He also told me to tell you to call for backup and wait for backup to actually arrive."

"Gil needs to stop talking with your family."

"Your propensity to not call or wait for backup is well known, Mal."

"Especially after what happened with Watkins." Malcolm grimaced. "Gil still doesn't let me forget about that one."

"Or going and getting electroshock therapy without telling anyone."

Malcolm made a face. "That's _you_ who won't let me forget about that."

"With good reason." Sorcha rest her forehead against his. "I happen to like your brain un-fried."

Immediately, the hauntingly familiar mix of orchids and jasmine rose up to envelope him in its floral web. Malcolm allowed himself to drift on that floral wave, allowed it to soothe away his anxiety and nerves. To chase back the dark things that taunted and tormented him every moment of his life.

"I don't know why you put up with me."

"I don't put up with you." Sorcha's eyes stared into his. Open. Honest. Soft with things he had never thought to see again. "I love you, you danger prone dumbass." She slid her other hand into his. "I always have, and I always will."

The words were on the tip of Malcolm's tongue.

He wanted to say them to her.

He ached to tell her what was in his heart.

Something kept him from doing so.

_Him_ , Malcolm realized, fingers quaking in hers. He prevented himself from telling her he loved her.

He always loved her.

He would always love her.

Instead, he said, "I should go see Sterling."

"Kay." Sorcha pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Promise me you'll be careful."

"It's me, remember?"

"Exactly my point."


	15. Chapter 15

Thomas found himself developing reservations after he ended his phone call to Endicott. He didn't feel he told the man anything that should have sparked the reaction from him it did.

All he told him was that the Whitly kid and his girlfriend left Major Crimes and were now outside the office building of his overpriced shyster of a lawyer.

 _It isn't so much what the man said_ , he told himself as he watched the couple talk in front of the building, _but how he said it that has me twisted into knots_.

How else was he supposed to take a statement like, " _Don't worry, Thomas, I'll take care of the situation personally_."

Thirty-three years on the force screamed at him the man had something planned for in case the kids showed up at his lawyers office.

Thomas tried his best to ignore his gut.

Told himself to not think about what a man like Endicott could have in mind for the oblivious couple.

Told himself he couldn't get involved no matter how much he might want too.

Whatever Endicott planned for the Whitly kid and his girlfriend was none of his business.

The reason he didn't dig into the affairs of Nicholas Endicott was because of the repercussions an investigation could cause.

Ian Turner found out the hard way about looking into Endicott's business.

Thomas didn't want to end up like the former chief of detectives.

Found in a hotel room with a dead call girl from an apparent self-inflicted gunshot to the head.

So the report went, anyway.

Many, Thomas included, suspected there was more to the situation than brass wanted revealed.

Owen Shannon, Turner's former partner getting killed right before the Whitly kid got kidnapped never sat well with him.

The official report said the Junkyard Killer had slashed Shannon's throat before luring the kid into a trap.

Thomas suspected he killed Ian Turner on orders from Endicott because he got too close to discovering the truth about the man's criminal empire.

Turner's career ruined, reputation shredded, his life over meant he was no longer a threat.

Yeah, Thomas absolutely could see Endicott ordering Turner murdered by this Watkins.

He wasn't the sort of man to cross, after all.

He not only had powerful allies down at 1PP, but he also had a rolodex of killers he could send after someone at a moment's notice.

Men and women who'd gladly take the money he offered.

Men and women who'd not blink as they took care of whoever Endicott told them too.

Thomas had no desire to find himself or his daughter on the wrong end of those men and women.

He saw what happened to those who ended up as one of their contracts.

Dumped in the river, an apparent suicide, just another dead girl people forgotten about soon as phones buzzed or newsfeeds updated.

He couldn't get involved, he again told himself as he watched the kid bury his face into his girlfriend's hair.

His gut refused to heed his request, though.

More he watched the two, the more he realized he couldn't sit by and allow something to happen to either one.

Thomas ran a hand over the back of his head and released a weary sigh.

This assignment wasn't supposed to have been complicated.

Follow the two around, snap some photographs of them, mark down where they went and who they saw, call Endicott, get paid.

Easy, peasy.

The longer he sat there, though, the more bothered he became by what Endicott said.

How he'd " _take care of the situation_."

That could mean only one of two things in his mind: he'd either have the Whitly kid or the Corbin girl killed.

Neither something Thomas wanted to see happen.

Much as the Whitly kid caused chaos wherever he went, he was a good kid. He helped clear some difficult cold cases. Found clues that eluded other detectives. Put away some serious scumbags. Animals like John Watkins and Robert Harwood.

And the Corbin girl?

Thomas couldn't allow any harm to come to her.

Not without feeling like an even bigger pile of dog shit than he already did.

He graduated from the Academy with her uncle, Jamie. Worked under her uncle, Hoyt before he was made Chief of Detectives. Hell, her mother, Erin was one of the nurses who helped save his partner after she got shot in a robbery gone wrong.

No way was he gonna sit back and let Endicott snuff either kid out.

Murder wasn't what he signed up for.

Surveillance, yes.

Photographing the pair, yes.

Allowing any physical harm to come to them?

Hell no.

Thomas Gray was a scumbag for agreeing to work for a class-A asshole like Nicholas Endicott, but he was still a cop under it all.

 _And cops take care of their own_ , he decided as he shoved open his door and exited the vehicle.

...

A rap on his office door broke Gil from the fugue he sunk into after leaving Edrissa.

He straightened in his chair and waved them in, knowing it was JT by the way he knocked on his door.

"What is it, JT?"

 _Please_ , he silently prayed, _have something we can work with here_.

Because as it stood, they had a whole lot of nothing.

 _Well_ , he amended as JT crossed to his desk, _we have a whole lot of nothing that points at Bright as prime suspect in a homicide_.

"I just got done checking the traffic cams like you suggested."

Intrigued at what JT might have found, Gil set down the pen he had been using to fill out the mountain of paperwork the higher-ups demanded he do before leaving the precinct.

"Where did you find them?"

Because there was no doubt in his mind that JT _wouldn't_ find Bright with Sorcha. If there was one thing Gil could be absolutely certain of, it was that those two wouldn't be far from the other.

 _Least of all while the kid's neck is in a noose_.

One thing had become abundantly clear during both of his conversations with Sorcha: the two had their Batman & Robin act down pat.

If he wanted to bust his Dynamic Duo?

He'd have to outsmart them.

Checking traffic cam footage for Sorcha's Mustang, a car easily as recognizable as his LeMan's until Bright used it as a cushion, occurred to him right after they left the morgue.

A picture was not something either Batman or Robin could casually refute.

Though he expected they'd try.

He'd be disappointed in them if they didn't.

The only thing keeping his anxiety and frustration under control was knowing the two were working together. If Bright had been out there and working this alone, Gil wouldn't be half as calm as he was.

No, he'd be out there hunting the kid down so he could forcibly drag his ass back to his mother's.

Sorcha wouldn't let anything happen to Bright. She'd make sure he didn't do his usual and run headfirst into danger. If they did happen to find themselves in trouble, he was confident she'd actually call for backup. Either from him, her uncles or her brother and his friends.

"Got 'em as they pulled into the parking lot around the corner." A glimmer of mirth crossed the younger man's face as he set a couple of glossy photographs on Gil's desk. "And again as they left."

"You didn't find them before they reached the parking lot?" One brow tilted as he stared at the two captured in the still photos. "How did they manage that?"

"Bright-Lite is smart."

The level of respect and admiration in JT's voice amused Gil. Few ever earned that level of regard. Not because JT had trust issues, but because he reserved that for people who truly deserved it. Sorcha won it by staunchly defending Bright from Colette Swanson and everyone else who doubted him.

"She'd have been smarter not to drive that Mustang."

Not that Gil could blame her for driving it. Not only was the convertible a connection to her father and days gone bye, but it was also one sweet ass ride.

"Thinking she drove it 'cause it is so recognizable."

"As a way of letting Endicott know she's helping Bright?"

"Girl ain't subtle when it comes to Bright."

Gil made a low sound of agreement as he picked up the photographs to study them. Bright hadn't even bothered to try and disguise his features.

Not that it overly shocked Gil he hadn't.

His kid had seemingly forgotten everything he learned during his ten tears working for the FBI.

 _I'm to blame for that_ , he realized as a phone rang outside his office. _I opened Pandora's Box when I went to him with the Quartet case. I knew he wouldn't say no. That he'd want in on the case once he saw how the victims had been killed. I'm why he resumed seeing his father. Why he ended up kidnapped by John Watkins. Why he's in the mess he now is._

Bright had scored a direct hit when he said he was the way he was because of his father. Watkins. _Him_.

That was why it was up to him to fix things.

To see the kid cleared of these ridiculous charges.

To get him to finally make a life for himself outside of murderers and murder.

"Did you see if they headed back to Jessica Whitly's after leaving here?"

"Can already tell you they weren't heading back to Bright's mom's place." JT set a few more photographs in front of him. "Camera caught them about five minutes ago outside the office of Everett Sterling."

"Everett Sterling?" Gil's brow furrowed. "The scumbag attorney who got Martin Whitly his plea deal?"

Opening the door for Endicott to give him his nice, cushiony cell in exchange for his silence about Sophie Sanders.

The former Girl in the Box.

Sister of Eve Blanchard.

Bright's dead girlfriend.

Murdered by Eddie Smith.

A man who worked for Nicholas Endicott.

Who framed Bright.

"One and the same."

"Why are they going to see Everett Sterling?" It made no sense. Unless... "They're trying to track down who owns Corbell Laboratories."

A frown creased the skin between JT's eyes.

"Why would they be trying to track down who owns Corbell Laboratories?"

"To see if it's one of the subsidiaries owned by Nicholas Endicott."

Dawning realization crept over JT's face.

"If they can prove that Endicott owns the labs where the blood was tested than they can prove the blood on Eddie Smith wasn't Bright's." JT grunted. "Fits what Bright-Lite was saying to me and Dani before you came in."

"Get Powell." Gil pushed to his feet. Reached for his jacket. "We need to get to Sterling's office before those two get in trouble."

 _If they aren't already_ , he thought as he followed JT from his office.

These were his kids, after all.

Danger magnets.

Both of them.


	16. Chapter 16

Malcolm entered Sterling's office fully expecting getting answers wouldn't be easy. The man earned his reputation by being a shark inside the courtroom and out. By manipulating the law to his and his affluent clients advantage. By doing whatever it took to see them beat the charges leveled against them.

The photographs lining the wall opposite of where Sterling stood told a different story. Those pictures showed a man in complete contrast to the one his mother called _The Devil._

That Sterling stood proud among people at protest rallies. Who fought diligently for civil rights. Who shook hands with men like Jesse Jackson.

Those images told Malcolm that Sterling had been a man of principle.

That he once held himself to a high standard.

Wanted to use the law to fight injustice and right wrongs.

That Sterling wouldn't have helped men like his father, John Watkins or Robert Harwood evade prosecution.

He wouldn't have helped get them placed in Claremont Psychiatric.

No, he'd have seen them punished for the crimes they committed.

Made sure their victims got the justice they deserved.

That their voices were heard.

So, what turned that activist into _The Devil_? Malcolm pondered that as he and Sterling stared at each other. Did Endicott discover something in his past that he used to compel the man to trade in his principles and become an attorney for serial killers and junk bond traders?

Asking him straight out if that's what happened wouldn't get him an answer. No more than it had gotten him the truth about who owned Corbell Laboratories. Appealing to the man Sterling had been before Endicott got his hooks into him was the only way Malcolm could get him to tell him what he needed.

"What happened to that man?" Malcolm nodded towards the pictures on the wall. "What made that activist give up his intention to use the law to help people?"

Indecision broke through the stone mask Sterling habitually wore. He wanted to talk. Malcolm could feel it. Something or someone held him back. _And I have a good idea who that is._

"I think that man hates what he's become." There was a faint flinch. One Sterling did his best to hide. "I also think he hates the man who did it." He stepped forward and dropped his voice to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Come on, Sterling." He again indicated the pictures. "Be that guy and tell me about Endicott's lab."

Malcolm fully expected Sterling to deflect his questions with more legal jargon. He was surprised when the man sniffed softly and said, "It's funny, twenty years ago, I advised against that acquisition."

Malcolm's brow knit. "Why?" he asked.

"There's no money in DNA analysis." Sterling set the paper he had been about to put through the shredder on the edge of his desk and faced Malcolm. "Of course, profits have never been what Nicholas was after."

"He wanted power."

Power and control were the only things men like Endicott enjoyed.

"He's kept a lot of important people out of jail. And his price was..." A faint hint of bitterness coated his voice, the curve of his lips. "Almost reasonable."

Malcolm didn't even have to guess what that price was.

"He demands absolute loyalty."

"No," Sterling said. "That is the one thing you never tell Endicott."

"Why kill Eve?"

The question caught Sterling by surprise. For a minute, Malcolm almost believed he didn't know Endicott ordered her killed.

Almost.

"He must've been afraid she'd find her sister and the files Sophie stole from him."

"The files are real then?"

Excitement coursed through Malcolm. If he could find those files, he could bring Endicott down.

"If you want to prove your innocence, Malcolm?" Sterling came forward so he and Malcolm stood face-to-face. "Get your father to tell you where those files are. That's the..." A sound came from outside Sterling's office. A frown creased his brow as he lifted his head. "Did you bring someone here with you?"

Sorcha was waiting downstairs for him but there was no way he was going to reveal that to Sterling. Just because the man chose to help him didn't mean he trusted him.

Not completely.

"I didn't bring anyone with me."

Malcolm turned just as a bullet shattered the window behind him, sending glass to the floor in a waterfall of shards. He readied himself for the bright bite of the pain as the bullet entered his flesh.

Only, it never came.

He assumed the delivery man missed, but there was a sound, much like the one a wet mop made as it slapped onto tile. Puzzled, Malcolm turned towards Sterling, but froze when he saw the large red stain blossoming across the front of the lawyer's white shirt.

_They shot Sterling and not me_? was the first thought that went through his mind. _But_... His brow creased. _That makes no sense_.

Not unless...

Malcolm's heart slammed against his ribcage and his breath wheezed out from between lips that felt like they were frozen together as the awful truth of what happened slowly dawned on him.

Whoever had been sent here had not been hired to kill _him_.

No, they were there to make sure Sterling didn't talk.

_My fault_ , he realized as what color drained from Sterling's face. _This is my fault_.

He got Sterling killed.

Same as he got Eve killed.

By sticking his nose in where he shouldn't have.

Sterling started to fall backward then.

Malcolm leapt forward and caught him, eased him to the floor.

"Sterling!" Malcolm pressed his hands to the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood but failing. "Hold on! You'll be okay."

Sterling groaned and groped for a fistful of his jacket. The eyes that raised to Malcolm's were blown wide with a deluge of shock, fear, and agony.

_And acceptance_ , Malcolm realized as his hands became sticky.

Sterling knew he was gonna die and saw it as his penance for all the men and women he helped elude justice.

"You need... your dad," Sterling managed in a wet whisper. "He's the only one... who can end this."

Then he was gone, leaving Malcolm with bloodstained hands, and no way to logically explain what happened that wouldn't land him in hotter water than he already was in.

...

Malcolm had been inside for ten minutes.

A lifetime given the amount of danger surrounding her danger prone dope.

_And he's up there without backup or a weapon to defend himself_.

Nerves tingled, hands trembled, and thoughts whirled as Sorcha paced in front of the building.

Part of her hoped, _prayed_ , Gil would catch wind of where they were, what they were doing, and show up to stop them.

The other part of her hoped, prayed he didn't because if he did, he'd be obligated to arrest her and Malcolm.

Not that Sorcha cared if she ended up going to jail. Long as they proved Malcolm's innocence and brought down Nicholas Endicott? She was fine with going to jail.

_I have to find those files of dad's,_ she realized as car horn's bleated and people shouted around her. _They're the only way to stop Endicott_.

Turner said he hid the files in a place that had significance to her, Malcolm and her father.

The question was: _where_?

"Miss Corbin?"

Sorcha spun around, body taut, and hands clenched. Trust nobody not in their inner circle. That was what she and Malcolm agreed. However, the man who stood there looked vaguely familiar.

"I'm sorry," she said warily. "Do I know you?"

A faint smile curved the man's fleshy lips.

"Been about fifteen years since you saw me last." He held out a large hand. "Detective Gray. I know..."

"My uncle, Jamie." Sorcha nodded as she finally recognized the grizzled detective. "You graduated from the police academy together."

"Worked together in the 2-3 until he got transferred to special victims." Sorcha swore a faint hint of wistfulness shot through Detective Gray's pale eyes but it was gone so fast she was left wondering if she had seen it. "Those were good days. Worked with a lot of good men and women back then."

"Uncle Jamie speaks highly of you."

"He's a good man, your uncle. Both of 'em are."

"My Mom would agree with you."

"Fine woman, your mom." A small smile curled the ends of his lips. "Sure you've heard enough about how much you look like her but damned if you aren't her spitting image."

"She claims I look and act more like my dad."

"Well." Detective Gray chuckled softly. "I tend to recall the Brannigans are as ornery as the Corbins."

"Uncle Jamie's the most even tempered member of the family."

"Until you rile him." His eyes twinkled with fondness. "Then he's like an Irish Terrier."

"He'd say he's more like an Irish Wolfhound."

"No, that'd be your uncle Hoyt."

"You're right." Sorcha hummed a laugh. "He and dad were a lot alike there."

"Your dad, Ian," Detective Gray said quietly. "He's why I'm here, actually."

"My dad?" A puzzled frown feathered Sorcha's brow. "What about him?"

"Because." Gray watched a delivery man enter Sterling's building through narrowed eyes. "If there's one man Nicholas Endicott fears, it's Ian Corbin."

"But my dad is..."

"Dead." The detective nodded. "I know he is. I was right sorry to hear of his passing." He raked his thick, callused fingers through his more gray than brown hair. "Things might never have gotten this far had he lived."

"This far?" Curious now despite her gut telling her she shouldn't be, Sorcha moved closer to him and dropped her voice. "You know about Endicott's serial killer ring?"

Detective Gray's expression caused a chill to run down her spine. Warned her things were far worse than she or Malcolm imagined them.

"Endicott's running an entire criminal empire, kiddo. One he's operating with the cooperation and knowledge of many in law enforcement, government, and other influential circles."

Sorcha suspected, as had Gil and Malcolm, of Endicott having aligned himself with people in position to further his goals and ambition. The man used money and manipulation to get the power and control he craved.

_He also isn't afraid to kill those who threaten him with exposure._

Something Ian Turner and Eve Blanchard both did.

Turner with her dad's help and Eve with her sister's.

"Endicott fears the files my dad gave to Ian Turner."

"He knows Turner left those files to you." Gray let out a pained sigh. "That's why he hired me to follow you and the Whitly kid around. To see if you came up with those files."

Sorcha had to wait for her fury to pass before she could speak. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified it was.

"You've been following Malcolm and I?"

"Yes."

Her nails curled into her palms to keep her from planting a fist in his craggy face. Last thing Malcolm needed was her assaulting an officer.

Even if that officer was a corrupt one.

"How long?" She demanded in a low hiss. "How long have you been following us?"

"Since November."

"Nove…" She trailed off as the blood drained from her face. "You took those photos of Malcolm and I. The ones that got delivered to the station house a few weeks ago."

The ones that exposed their private life. Something nobody had a right to do.

"I took them but Endicott delivered them to Robert Harwood."

A chill ran through Sorcha as realization dawned.

"Robert worked for Endicott." Another, more damning question occurred to her. "Did he also influence my meeting him?"

"My guess?" Gray blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"Did he also get Malcolm fired from the FBI?"

Before Gray could reply, Malcolm came hurdling through the front door. Blood covered the front of his jacket and shirt. Darkened his hands.

"Sterling's dead," he panted out. "A man in a delivery uniform shot him."

Behind them, Gray cursed. Long and viciously.

"Endicott," he growled. "He's covering his ass." He reached into his jacket and pulled out his service revolver. "You two get back where you belong and wait for either Arroyo or your uncles to come to you."

"Who are..." Malcolm began but Gray cut him off.

"Go!"

Sorcha grabbed Malcolm's hand and did as the detective ordered.

They were in enough hot water.

They didn't need to drown in it.


	18. Chapter 18

A battalion of cop cars and news vans were parked outside Sterling's building by the time Gil got there. Great, was his only thought as JT parked behind some squad cars.

Reporters shouted questions at him as they made their way to the entrance.

"No comment," he heard JT bark at one. "Now, back up!"

If not for how serious things were, Gil might have smiled at how fast the reporters scrambled out of JT's way.

Not that he could blame them.

JT was built like a linebacker.

_And barks like a Pit Bull._

A Uni waved them on inside. Something they wouldn't need if Bright would have stayed at Jessica's.

_Dammit, Bright,_ he thought as he headed for the elevator. _Why couldn't you do what I asked just this once_?

Because it wouldn't be Bright was why.

The kid wasn't the sort to sit on the sidelines. Least of all when it was his neck on the line. Didn't mean he couldn't wish Bright would let him figure out how to get him out of the predicament he was in.

"Gil."

A grin split Gil's lips as he spied Jamie Brannigan coming towards him. He clasped the hand offered, relieved to have someone he could trust working with him to figure out what the hell happened.

"Managed to rope you into this mess, too, did they?"

Jamie snorted a soft laugh and jerked his head in the direction of a man talking with JT and Dani.

"Gray called me in on this mess, actually."

"Gray?" Gil vaguely remembered the veteran detective. "He worked the 2-3 with you back when you were rookies, didn't he?"

"He did, yeah." Jamie nodded. "Transferred over to the Detective Bureau about ten years ago, though."

Gil didn't have to ask why such a transfer appealed to a detective like Thomas Gray. The Detective Bureau's main responsibilities included the prevention, detection, and investigation of crimes. Most cops who wore a badge wanted to see crimes averted when and where possible.

Those that didn't?

Well, they didn't deserve to wear a badge in his opinion.

"So." He waved towards where Edrisa was examining Sterling's body. "What the hell happened?"

_And please tell me Bright wasn't involved._

Not that Gil had any hopes of the kid not somehow being wrapped up in this mess.

He just wasn't lucky enough for that.

"Best I can tell..." Jamie heaved a sigh. "Your boy was in the office and talking to Sterling when a delivery man came out of nowhere and fired a single shot through the window."

"At Bright?"

"No, Gray said the target was Sterling."

"Sterling?" Gil's brow creased. "Why would the target be Sterling?"

"Likely to keep him from revealing anything to Malcolm."

"Attorney-client privilege prevents that."

"Malcolm's more than capable of getting around that, Gil."

_He's right,_ Gil realized as a sheet was placed over Sterling's body. _Bright would know how to get the answers he wanted from Sterling without breaking confidentiality._

Endicott couldn't take the chance the attorney would develop a conscience and help Bright prove his innocence.

So, he had one of the dozens of contract killers on his payroll take care of him.

Same as he hired Eddie Smith to get rid of Eve Blanchard.

_And almost Martin Whitly._

The man's unerring ability to walk away from danger unscathed impressed, as much as it frustrated Gil.

"Where are Bright and Sorcha now?"

"Gray said he sent them back to the Whitly home with express orders to wait there for us."

Gil snorted a laugh.

"Like Batman and Robin actually obeyed."

Jamie's lips twitched.

"Would you expect anything less from them at this point?"

"No." Gil watched Edrisa chatting animatedly at Dani and JT. The two wore similar expressions of frustration. He hid a smile as he turned back to Jamie. "Them doing their own thing is the only constant I have right now."

Jamie's brow furrowed.

"Things are that bad with Malcolm's case?"

"Bad enough."

Gil couldn't imagine things getting any worse than they currently were. Jamie blew out a breath as crime scene techs moved around them categorizing evidence and taking pictures.

"Hoyt is reaching out to his contacts at 1PP to see if he can't get a bead on who might be on Endicott's payroll."

Gil hoped he'd find out before orders came down to charge Malcolm officially with murder.

"Arroyo, Jamie," Thomas Gray said as he lumbered up to them. "Wish we coulda met under better circumstances..."

"Best time as any," Gil replied as he shook the detective's hand. "Especially given the circumstances in question."

"I'm just glad you were here, Tom." Jamie raked a hand through his hair. "Hate to think of what might have happened to them two had you not been here."

"Yeah, well." A shadow passed over Gray's face. Set off bells inside Gil. "Don't thank me, yet, Jamie."

"Why not?"

"Because the only reason I was here is because Endicott has had me following the kids since last November."

Fury almost consumed Gil. Before he could react, though, Jamie grabbed Gray by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. A couple of uni's came forward to break up the fight but a look from Gil got them to back off.

"You work for Endicott?" Jamie growled, eyes flashing. "You're telling me you're actually on this asshole's payroll?"

"Yeah." Gray remained completely docile in Jamie's hold. Something Gil knew the man wouldn't be if not for the respect he had for him. "Yeah, I started working for Endicott in 2018."

"Why?" Jamie's fingers curled into Gray's white dress shirt. "Why would you work for a man like Nicholas Endicott? Christ, Tom, you're a _cop_!"

"To pay for Kenzie's tuition." Shame and sorrow filled the older man's face. "That's the reason I started moonlighting as a private investigator. We needed the money after Diane got sick. Everything we had went to her medical bills. We had nothing left to pay for Kenzie to go to school."

While Gil didn't approve of Gray working for a man like Endicott, he couldn't fault the man for doing what was necessary so his kid could go to college. Not everyone had the kind of money Endicott did.

Something the man used to his advantage.

_How many other cops does he have on his payroll for the same reason as Gray?_

Hoyt Brannigan was looking into that number as they spoke. Trying to find the person responsible for Bright being arrested.

Gil suspected it'd be someone they never anticipated.

Like Thomas Gray.

Only higher up the division chain.

"Why didn't you come forward sooner?" Gil asked as Jamie stepped back. "Why wait until Sterling's dead before coming forward with what you know?"

"Because I didn't agree to murder when I started working for him." Gray straightened his mussed shirt before looking at Gil. "I might be a shit cop for working for a man like Endicott but I'm still a cop at the end of the day."

"This goes public and you won't be," Jamie said. "Your career is over, Tom."

"If losing my badge keeps those kids alive?" Gray fished his badge from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Jamie. "Then have it."

"Which one?" Gil stepped towards him. "Which one does Endicott want killed?"

"My guess?" Gray glanced at Jamie, his expression grim. "Your niece."

"Over my dead body," Jamie rumbled. "I'll kill the son of a bitch before he gets anywhere near Sorcha or Malcolm."

On that, he and Gil were in perfect agreement.

"I'll handle Batman and Robin," he told Jamie as he signaled for JT and Dani. "If you and Gray can handle the rest of this mess."

"You got it." Gray's jaw clenched. "Anything I can do to help at this point, I will."

"I'll meet you at your squad later," Jamie said. "Have a few things to say to Batman."

"She'll be there," Gil promised before exiting with JT and Dani.

...

"Who was the man you were talking with outside Sterling's office?" Malcolm asked once they were back in the car. "I didn't recognize him."

"Thomas Gray." Sorcha glanced over her left shoulder before switching lanes. "He graduated with Uncle Jamie from the academy."

"Ah." Ten years brought about many changes. Especially to people. Kids became teenagers, teenagers became adults, and so on. "What was he doing outside Sterling's building?"

"He works for Endicott."

"What?" Malcolm's heart dropped into his already violently cramping belly. Only sheer perseverance kept him from emptying the bits of toast and coffee he managed at breakfast all over the floorboard. "He _works_ for Endicott?"

"He's apparently been reporting to him on our comings and goings since November." Her fingers gripped the steering wheel hard enough her knuckles cracked. "It was Detective Gray who took those photographs of us."

Malcolm didn't have to ask what photographs. He knew what ones she meant. Ones that should never have been taken in the first place because of the private moment they captured. Fury replaced the fear and anxiety fighting for dominance inside him. Spasmed in the hand clenched atop his thigh.

"He gave them to Tammy Lynn?"

"No, he gave them to Endicott." Sorcha turned at the corner. "Who gave them to Robert."

"Who, in turn, gave them to Tammy Lynn."

"Mhm."

Malcolm absorbed that as Sorcha stopped behind a delivery van. Part of him wanted to rant and rail about their being followed. At their privacy being invaded.

The other realized there was little point in being upset. Endicott was a man who bought information and used it to gain the only things he craved: _power and control_.

Sorcha wasn't done with her bombshells, however. She still had one more to hit him with.

"Robert worked for Endicott."

What breath he managed to draw in whooshed out of Malcolm.

"He _what_?" He shifted in his seat to stare at her, eyes wide.

"Robert, Watkins, your father, they all worked for Endicott."

_Who knows how many others there are,_ he thought as Sorcha pulled up in front of his mother's house.

"We need to tell Gil about this."

Sorcha cut the engine and sat staring out at the street, eyes pensive, mouth set in a hard line.

"We need to find Dad's files is what we need." Her hands dropped to her lap. "They are the only thing that will help us prove Endicott is the monster he is."

"Turner left you no clue about where they could be?"

"Just that he left them where it all began."

"Where it all began?" A frown knit Malcolm's brow as he tried to decipher the clue. "Where _what_ all began?"

Sorcha shook her head. "I don't know." She blew out a breath. "There are any number of places he could mean. Where your dad was born. Where he committed his first murder. Where the first body he and Watkins killed together is buried."

"Any of those are possible but have no connection to you, me, and your dad."

"Maybe, maybe not." She turned to him. "There could be a connection there but we can't see it. Not yet."

"You're right." Much as Malcolm hated to admit it. "We need to figure out that connection."

Sorcha reached over and stroked the back of his neck. Equal parts comfort and support. Desperately needed given the situation they found themselves.

"We will." She indicated his mother's house with a slight nod. "Get inside and cleaned up. If we want to keep you out of jail a little bit longer, we can't have Gil finding you off your leash, and covered in Sterling's blood."

"Where are you going?"

"To check on Sunshine."

He had not forgotten his little budgie was alone at his loft. Ainsley, though, promised to check on her before they snuck out to see Edrisa. Which meant…

"You're going to meet your uncle Hoyt, aren't you?"

"No, I'm going to check on Sunshine." Her lips edged up into a smile. "Uncle Hoyt will just be there supervising as I pick up a few things for you."

Malcolm snorted a laugh. "Right."

Sorcha leaned over to kiss his cheek. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Just be careful."

_I can't lose you_ , he added silently.

Not _I love you_.

As he desperately wanted to say.

Because he couldn't make himself say the words despite how much he wanted too.

_One day, though_ , he swore as he stepped from the car. _One day, I'll find a way to tell her everything I've kept locked down deep inside._

Hopefully, it be before he ended up in prison.

Or dead.


	19. Chapter 19

Sunshine greeted her with happy chirps and tweets the moment she opened the front door of the loft.

"I'm here, pretty baby," she said as she moved to the budgie's cage. "We'll get you a little bit of freedom before we get you into your carrier and over to Malcolm, how's that?"

More chirps and tweets came from the little bird who fluttered down from her perch to stand in front of her cage door.

"Kiddo, I still don't think it's wise to talk here," Hoyt Brannigan rumbled behind her. "Endicott has eyes and ears everywhere."

Sorcha smiled at her uncle from over her shoulder. "TARU did a sweep and found all the cameras and audio devices Endicott had installed in Malcolm's loft."

A frown darkened her uncle's brow as he closed the loft door behind him. "So, the place was bugged?"

"Yes." Her stomach knotted with the familiar bite of betrayal and invasion of privacy. "Endicott likely had the place bugged before Malcolm moved back to New York."

"Have you placed a call to Adam to ask him if Malcolm's firing from the bureau had any outside influence from this Endicott?"

Sorcha nodded as she opened the cage door and reached her hand in for Sunshine, who hoped onto her fingers, gladly. "Adam says he found multiple phone calls between Endicott's assistant, Mercy Sleeves, and Malcolm's boss the week he got fired."

"I'll kill the bastard if I get my hands on him," her uncle growled. "What the bastard deserves after everything he's put you and the kid through."

"Killing Endicott won't get Malcolm out of this mess he's in."

"But it'll damn sure put an end to the son of a bitch's empire."

"Maybe." Sorcha gently rubbed Sunshine's neck between her fingers. The little budgie leaned into her touch, clearly needing, and enjoying the attention. _It hadn't been an easy night for her, either_ , she realized. _Her nest broken into by strangers and her nest-mate taken out in cuffs_ _in front of her_. "But I don't think so."

"You don't think Endicott dead will put a stop to his power and control?"

"I think there are a number of people who are more than willing to take his place."

"You're likely right." Uncle Hoyt heaved a sigh as he walked over to take a seat in one of the chairs at the kitchen island. "The only way to fully stop this is by exposing Endicott and as many of his cronies as we can."

"We need to find the files Dad left me." Sorcha moved to the sink and turned it on. Sunshine tweeted happily and bounced down to play in the thin stream of water. "That's the only way to put a stop to this."

"You have no idea where Turner might have left them?"

"No." Sorcha moved to the drawer where Malcolm kept his prescriptions. "All he said was he left them in a place that has importance to Malcolm, myself, and Dad."

"You checked your folks place?"

"With Sean, yes."

"Harvard?"

"Has more significance to me and Malcolm than Dad."

"Good point." A frown knit Uncle Hoyt's bushy brow. "Turner said the files were in the place where it all began, though?"

"Yes." Sorcha set the prescription bottles on the counter and moved to the closet. "Why?"

"Because I have an idea about what he meant by the place where it all began."

"Okay?" She selected shirts and pants, choosing items of comfort and leisure over Malcolm's usual suits of armor. "Where?"

"The FBI."

Sorcha stopped and half-turned to look at her uncle. "You think Turner handed the files to Adam?"

"Adam is the only person your dad would trust with files like these."

"Wait..." she said as an idea dawned. "You said the only person he would trust. Not that _Ian Turner_ would trust."

Uncle Hoyt turned his head to look at her, a questioning look in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"This whole time I have been looking at things from the perspective of Turner meaning me, Malcolm, and Dad." She carried the clothes over and set them next to the pill bottles. "What if Turner isn't referring to Dad when he says dad?"

"Who could he be referring too?"

"Gil Arroyo." She shut the water off. "He became Mal's dad after Martin Whitly's arrest and has filled that void left inside me after Dad's death."

_He filled that position while Dad was still alive_ , she realized as she grabbed a handful of Dum-Dum's from the cookie jar on the back counter. _When Dad wasn't there for a hug, advice or just to talk about things bothering me, Gil was_.

And she never thanked him for it.

_I will, though_ , she decided as Sunshine chirped and shook out her damp feathers. _Soon as this is over, I am going to do something to show Gil how important he is to me._

"Arroyo would have given you the files."

"Not if he doesn't know he has them."

Surprise crisscrossed her uncle's craggy face. "You think Turner hid them somewhere in Arroyo's office?"

"Only one way to find out."

"After he rips your butt for disobeying his orders."

Sorcha harrumphed and moved to collect the rest of Malcolm's things. "His orders were to stay close to Malcolm."

"Without getting into trouble."

She sent her uncle a cheeky grin. "I must have missed that part."

"Yeah," he replied as he started packing the things she set on the counter into the travel bag she brought up with her. "Your dad tended to, too."

"I am just like him."

"No, kiddo." He took the armful of socks and underwear she carted over and set them in the bag with the rest of the clothes. "You're the best parts of Ian."

Sunshine chirped her agreement as she hopped into the bag and snuggled up in one of Malcolm's sweaters.

"Don't worry, baby," she told the little budgie as she got her travel carrier and set it on the counter. "We're taking you with us."

Sunshine flew up to land on the bag, tweeting and chirping as she waited for the carrier door to open. Her uncle grunted softly.

"Is that Here Comes The Sun?"

Sorcha smiled as she unzipped the carrier. "Yes."

"Kiddo, do me a favor when this is all over."

"What?"

"Marry that boy."

Sorcha's lips curved, warm with affection. "Only if you promise to walk me down the aisle."

Uncle Hoyt covered her hand with his larger one. "Deal."

...

"Gil!" Surprise was the only thing on the kid's face when he walked into Jessica's living room half an hour after leaving Sterling's office. "What's going on?"

Gil frowned at him to let him know he was onto him.

Bright, to his credit, merely stared curiously back at him.

Robin is channeling Batman here, I see, Gil thought as he came to a stop in front of the couch. Well, time to trim his tail feathers a bit.

"Did you go see Everett Sterling?"

"No, of course not." Cool as a cucumber. If Gil wasn't wise to the truth, he'd have been impressed. Especially since the kid was normally as easy to read as a book. "Why? Has something happened to him?"

"What's the meaning of this?" Jessica demanded as she rounded on Gil. "My son has been here all day."

Gil didn't have the heart to call her out on her lie. Not that he could blame her. She was trying to protect her son, after all.

"You promise you didn't leave?"

If Gil thought Bright would break and admit to Dani that he had been at Sterling's building?

He was sorely mistaken.

"Dani, I promise you." Sincerity coated every word. "I did not leave at any point whatsoever."

"Okay."

"Since you're here, update me on the case." Malcolm tossed aside the magazine he had been pretending he had been reading when they came in and sat forward. An eager puppy looking for treats and attention. "Have you made any headway with Eddie's killer? I have some thoughts..."

"Sorry, kid, you got to sit this one out." Frustrated dismay darkened Bright's face. "We're handling this."

Gil made to leave but Bright called out to him.

"W-Wait! I can help!" The kid waved to his ankle monitor. "Uh... but not if I'm stuck here." He looked pleadingly at Gil. "Please, take me with you. I-I have to help."

Gil wanted to give in. He wished he could. He didn't, however. He couldn't. Not when there was so much on the line.

"We can't."

"I-I went to see Sterling." Dani and JT both stared incredulously at him. "He, uh, got shot right in front of me."

Gil, on the other hand, wasn't surprised the kid confessed. Bright simply wasn't as good as his partner at maintaining his poker face.

"You are a real piece of work, I swear."

Not that Bright seemed to hear him. No, the restless energy he barely kept contained on a good day leaked out of him in electric streams.

"I used the extraction kit," he pointed to a blue bag peeking out from under the sofa, "in that bag over there to free myself."

"Malcolm," Jessica hissed. "What in the name of all things holy are you doing?"

"He's making them take him, Mom," Ainsley said, frowning at her brother. "That's what he's doing."

Gil just wiped a hand over his face as Dani reached for her cuffs.

"This family, I swear..."

One of them was going to give him a stroke and he wasn't rightly sure which one of them it'd be.

House odds were on Bright but Gil had a feeling Jessica would be giving her son a run for the money.

"Let's go," he told JT and Dani. "We still need to go and round up Batman from the Batcave."

"Gil, no!"

Gil quieted Bright with a look.

"C'mon." JT took the kid by the arm. "Let's go."

Bright went without another word. Gil made to follow but stopped to look at Jessica.

"Jessica..."

She turned away from him.

"Just go."

Gil nodded, understanding they'd talk once this was all over, and exited the room.

...

Sorcha walked out of the kitchen at the same time JT and Dani led Malcolm out of the living room.

_Shit_ , was her first thought as she ducked back behind the kitchen door. That quickly changed as she realized what Malcolm being in cuffs meant: they either found out he slipped his ankle monitor or charges had officially been filed against him.

Either way, it was bad news.

_And means I need to work harder at finding those files if I want to keep his danger prone ass from ending up with his father in prison._

To do that, though, she needed to disappear before Dani and JT had a chance to spot her. Sorcha made to slip back into the kitchen but a hand hooked the back of her shirt before she managed to take one step.

"Oh, no, you don't."

Sorcha schooled her features before she lifted her eyes to Gil's less than amused ones.

"What's going on?" Cool, calm. As if she had simply been in the kitchen. She glanced around him at Malcolm. "Why is Malcolm in handcuffs?"

"Because Bright is coming with us downtown." Gil kept one hand on her while taking Sunshine's carrier and handing it to Ainsley. "And so are you."

"Why?"

"Can it." Gil steered her towards the front door. "Bright told us everything."

"You did not." Sorcha shot an incredulous look at Malcolm, who had the good sense to at least look sheepish. "Tell me you didn't."

"Ah." He ducked his head. "I, uh, did."

"Did we _not_ come up with a plan in the car?"

"A bad plan," Gil interjected. "One that could have gotten either of you killed."

"The shooter wasn't aiming at me," Bright offered, darting a look at Gil. "He was there to kill Sterling."

"Mal..." Sorcha frowned at him. "Have you ever heard of the right to remain silent?"

"Of course," he replied, indignant. "I have been there when suspects were read their rights."

"Try using it."

"That's like his skinny ass calling for backup," JT rumbled as he steered Bright to the door. "And actually waiting for it."

Sorcha hummed a laugh but was prevented from replying by Gil who said, "Let's go." He walked her down the steps. "You two take Robin back to the station. I'll bring Batman in the Batmobile." He steered her over to the car parked at the curb. "Keys."

Sorcha handed them over without a word.

She figured now wasn't the time to push her luck.

Not when searching Gil's office for those files was at the top of her to do list.


	20. Chapter 20

The only sound filling the interior of the car was the soft purr from the V8 engine under the hood. Not that Gil minded the silence. It gave him a chance to process everything that happened and formulate what their next move should be.

Not that he had any idea what move they could make. That Nicholas Endicott had been one step ahead of them the whole time was an understatement. How far his reach went, how many pockets his money lined, what agencies he controlled remained a complete and total mystery.

His only hope for finding out who Endicott had on his payroll down at 1PP was Hoyt Brannigan. Gil trusted he'd find out before word came down to arrest Bright and formally charge him with the murder of Eddie Smith.

Gil pulled to a stop behind the SVU with the kid in it. He told himself he chose to follow JT back to the precinct over taking his usual way because it allowed him to keep an eye on Batman _and_ Robin.

Spying Bright glancing over his shoulder through the back glass, face lined with worry, and eyes blown wide convinced him he followed JT simply so the kid wouldn't have a full-on panic attack.

Separating the two hadn't been intended as a punishment. _Well_ , he amended as the woman beside him fidgeted in a manner similar to Bright. _I hadn't intended it to punish them._

Not that they didn't deserve it after what all they pulled.

Finding out Bright was at Sterling's building at the time the man was shot frayed Gil's already frazzled nerves to the point of snapping. He hadn't believed for one minute that the kid was responsible for Sterling's murder.

No, he put the blame for Everett Sterling's death on Everett Sterling and the man he worked for: Nicholas Endicott.

Gil's jaw clenched as the number of bodies connected to Endicott rolled through his mind.

Eve Blanchard, Eddie Smith, now Everett Sterling.

Three people who threatened Endicott's empire.

All dead because of one man's ambitions.

His vendetta with another thorn in Gil's foot: Martin Whitly.

Part of Gil, one he kept hidden from everyone wished Eddie had been successful at killing Bright's father. Much as losing Martin would devastate the kid, it'd also help him to finally break free of his hold.

 _Ten years,_ Gil realized, fingers clamping the steering wheel. _Ten years he was away from Martin. Away from his control. His manipulation._

Then Malcolm got fired from the FBI. Something Sorcha believed Endicott had a hand in. Maybe after a desperate call by Martin Whitly to help him get his son back in exchange for his continued silence about Endicott's underground business.

Gil didn't know.

Maybe now was a good time to find out.

Sorcha again fidgeted in her seat. From the corner of his eye he saw her hand go to her left wrist. To where the charm bracelet she used to wear would be. Gil secretively had hoped Bright would return it.

The love it represented, the memories, were all things the two needed at that moment. For them, as much as those around them. A menace circled them, taunted them at their every move, threatened them with every breath. Having that small bit of light kept that darkness at bay.

 _For now_ , he amended as he turned at the light. Sorcha sighed softly before turning towards him.

"Gil..."

"Anything you say had better start with an explanation about why you and Bright were at Sterling's office."

She turned back in her seat with a small harrumph.

"You know the answer to that."

"I'd still like to hear it."

Instead if answering, as Bright would have, Sorcha said, "I think I know where Turner hid dad's files."

"You think you..." Gil shot a look at her from the corner of his eye. "Where?"

"Your office."

"My office?" His eyebrows winged up. "Don't you think I'd have noticed something like a huge stack of files suddenly appearing in my office?"

"Not if he hid them somewhere you wouldn't think to look."

"Such as?"

"The couch, behind the file cabinets, in one of the boxes stacked behind your desk."

Gil considered that as he braked at a stop sign. Ian Turner had been in the precinct a few days before his murder to speak with a couple of his other detectives about an ongoing investigation. He remembered he had a file box with him. It was possible, he realized, hope burning a hole in his gut, that box contained the files he and Ian Corbin put together on Nicholas Endicott and Martin Whitly.

"Why would he leave them in my office?" That was the part that Gil couldn't figure out. "What purpose does leaving them there serve?"

"Why do you think he left them in your office? Because _you're_ dad. You have been since you answered what was thought to be a prank call twenty years ago." Her lips curved at the corners. "You stepped up to be dad when _Dad_ couldn't be dad."

Gil softened, as he always did when it came to his frequently troublesome brood. Just because he did, didn't mean he let her off the hook. Batman aided and abetted Robin. Something he couldn't allow.

"You're not trying to buy yours and Bright's butts out of trouble with flattery, now, are you?"

"No." Sorcha blinked those big brown eyes. Picture of innocence. Complete bullshit in Gil's books. "I'd never do something so underhanded and dirty as that."

"Right." Gil chuckled softly. "You're not manipulative like your partner."

"Nope, not at all."

"Mhm." And if he bought that he'd need to hand in his badge. "Explain what you were doing at Sterling's building."

"We were trying to get answers, Gil. Trying to prove Endicott's behind this frame-job."

"You're supposed to be keeping Bright out of trouble." Gil shot her a look, had the satisfaction of seeing her squirm in her seat. "Not helping him get into more."

"Yes, I know that." Sorcha blew out a breath ripe with the same exhaustion and frustration weighing heavy on him. "He's fighting for his life here, Gil. The first time that danger prone dope has ever done that."

"He could have been killed today." His fingers clenched the wheel, hard enough the knuckles bled white. "That bullet could have hit him."

"I agree with Malcolm in that the target was Sterling."

"Imagine that," he kidded. "I'd be more shocked if you didn't agree with him."

"I also think the shooter was Endicott."

Gil almost slammed on the brakes at that revelation. "What?" His tone was sharper than he intended so he softened it. "Are you sure?"

"Not one hundred percent, no." Sorcha's brow creased. "But I am eighty-five percent certain that the delivery man I saw exit the building right after Sterling was shot was Nicholas Endicott."

"We can get traffic cam footage from outside the building to see if it was him or not."

 _And if it was him who shot Sterling_ , Gil decided as he pulled into the space next to JT in the precinct parking lot, _I will personally slap him in cuffs and haul his ass down here._

He exited the vehicle as Dani helped Bright from the SUV. His feet barely hit the pavement before he moved towards Sorcha. Dani holding his arm was all that kept him from going to her side. He stared at Sorcha, frustration and worry warring for dominance on his face.

"It's okay." Sorcha sent him a reassuring smile. "Trust me."

"No." Bright's brow furrowed. "This isn't okay." He turned then to Gil. "Sorcha is here because of me. This is my fault. All of this is—"

"Kid." Gil took Sorcha's arm and walked her towards the street. "You need to practice the ability to remain silent right about now."

Especially since Gil couldn't be sure who under his command wasn't working for Endicott. There were a number of detectives in his squad he inherited after Lieutenant Harrison retired.

Many had been on the force as long as him. A few, like Samson and Garret, longer. Some were like Thomas Gray. Men and women who found themselves with medical bills and tuition they couldn't afford to pay on their salaries.

"I have the ability to remain silent," Bright retorted indignantly. "I just am refusing to do so at this moment because I don't want Sorcha arrested."

"Your skinny ass can't keep your lips closed for longer than thirty seconds." JT led Bright towards the front steps of the police station. "Only time you're quiet is when you're knocked the hell out."

"I don't want Sorcha charged with anything."

"She's not being charged with anything at this point," Gil told him. "She's a person of interest in an ongoing homicide investigation."

Whatever Bright replied with was lost as people started to scream and race for cover. Gil frowned, unsure what happened until he spied a uniformed officer named Markinson stumble back, clutching at his right arm. Blood soaked through his shirt and stained his fingers. Instincts quickly kicked in and Gil yanked the confused officer to safety before shouting at JT and Dani.

"Shooter!" He pulled Sorcha down beside him. "Get down!"

JT instantly dropped down to one knee, pulling Bright down beside him.

"We need to get Bright and Mini-Bright inside the precinct!"

"Not with that shooter on any one of the roofs," Dani said as she crouched beside him. "They've got us pinned down."

Gil reached for Markinson's radio. They had only one option and it was the one he continually lectured Bright about: calling for backup.

Only, _they'd_ actually wait for backup to arrive.

"Dispatch, we have a code 30 outside the 1-5," he began as another shot shattered a car window. "Shots fired. One officer injured. Need air assistance and a bus."

" _Copy that,_ " came crackling through the radio. " _Air support has been notified and an ambulance is en route now_."

Gil hoped they'd get there before anybody else was shot.

Or worse…


	21. Chapter 21

A sniper taking shots at him from the roof of an adjacent building was a situation JT had more than passing familiarity with. He had dealt with snipers frequently while in the army. Sniper took out two of his buddies on the same day. Searching roofs and the roads became key to his and his squad mates survivals.

He thought he left the world of snipers behind when he finished his service but discovered he was wrong when six months after leaving the academy he and his partner were fired on by a man with a grudge against police.

JT had been fired at a number of times by people who hated the police.

Things like that came with the badge.

He accepted it, worked through it, dealt with the fallout from it, considered it the price he paid to do what he did: catch bad guys.

Then there was Malcolm Bright.

His chaotic, over-the-top, couldn't-keep-his-mouth-shut-if-he-tried ass got him shot at — or nearly blown up — a number of times since the first case they worked almost a year ago.

Never while the guy was handcuffed, though.

And never when his skinny ass stood a good chance at going down for murder.

Something JT believed, without a shadow if doubt, Bright hadn't done.

The guy was many things, and he had a list he could give anyone who wanted to see it, but a murderer wasn't one of 'em.

Malcolm Bright just didn't have it in him to kill.

_Guy might have the instinct to kill_ , he thought as his finger tightened on the trigger of his gun, _but he lacks the ability to carry it out_.

He didn't need Bright's FBI file to know the guy never fired his gun in his ten years as an agent.

Swanson insinuated as much in a few of the conversations they had while she was helping them with the Junkyard Killer case.

JT considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and while he completely admitted to not trusting Bright in the beginning, he liked to think he had a grasp now on who the profiler was.

The first, and by far most important thing he learned about Captain Danger Magnet was the guy never thought about his own safety or well-being.

Bright always placed others ahead of himself.

Took risks so others didn't have too.

Placed himself in harm's way so others wouldn't be.

That's why it came as no surprise when the shooting started that Bright instantly moved to shield Lite-Bright.

Not that JT faulted him any there.

He'd do the same thing if it was Tally.

Protecting your own was the law of the land.

To do that, however, one needed the use of their hands.

Something Bright didn't have since his were currently behind his back. _Can fix that_ , JT decided as another shot chipped away the asphalt near the precinct steps.

"What're you doing?" Dani hissed as he pulled the keys to the cuffs from his pocket. "You can't unlock Bright's cuffs."

"Guy's gotta right to protect his girl," was all he said.

And for JT it was that simple.

Bright might be suspected of murder.

He hadn't committed it.

More, his skinny ass was still part of their team.

He deserved the benefit of doubt.

More, he had earned it.

JT understood why Dani struggled with believing Bright was innocent. Her trust issues were about as massive as Bright's. A number of people she allowed inside her inner circle let her down. Hurt her in ways she didn't talk about with anyone, even Gil. Working undercover hadn't helped any, either.

Deep down, though, Dani knew Bright hadn't murdered Eddie Smith. She was just doing what the job taught her: following the evidence.

Which all pointed to Bright, unfortunately.

"Sorcha is capable of protecting herself," Dani said as someone screamed. "And Bright."

"Not about who can protect who here."

"What's it about then?"

"Guy's already lost one woman he cared for because of Endicott." Another bullet shattered one of the car windows. "Imagine how he'll be if he loses Mini-Bright."

Who ranked higher on the guy's list.

"It'll likely push him over the edge," she admitted begrudgingly. "Which won't help him or us with proving he didn't kill Eddie."

"Yup."

Dani blew out a heavy breath. "Let him go. For now," she added as more screams pierced the air.

JT twisted around and grabbed hold of Bright's right wrist to unlock the first cuff. Bright sent a panicked look over his shoulder but relaxed when he realized what JT was doing.

"Thank you," he mouthed as JT unlocked the other cuff.

JT nodded towards Bright-Light. "Protect your girl."

Not like he needed to tell Bright that.

The guy sucked at social cues and interactions.

Relationships?

He was a complete and utter disaster.

If the two didn't end up back on the same page after this, well then, he'd handcuff them together until they did.

Bright needed someone who not only understood his quirks and idiosyncrasies, but could put up with them, as well.

_Needs someone to keep his skinny ass from bouncing off the walls._

Someone like Lite-Bright, in fact.

Kept telling his scrawny ass he was making the wrong choice.

Not that he had anything against Eve Blanchard. He only met the woman the one time. It was enough, though, for even Tally to have formed the opinion that she wasn't right for Bright.

" _She's hiding something_ ," Tally said moments after Eve and Bright left the pool hall. " _Not sure what, but she's definitely hiding something_."

That something was her being related to who Bright and Gil called the Girl In The Box.

Someone they believed had been murdered twenty years ago by Bright's crazy ass father and his equally nutty partner, John Watkins.

Both of whom were connected to Nicholas Endicott.

A guy with enough money and social connections to do whatever the hell he pleased.

Include frame Bright for murder.

"Where is that damn helicopter?" Gil grumbled as another bullet pinged off the car's roof. "It should've been here by now!"

"I'll get an ETA on it," Dani offered, reaching for her radio. "How's Markinson?"

"Needs to get to the hospital sooner rather than later."

JT translated that bit of Gil code as the young officer was fine.

_For now._

Bullets hurt, though.

Anybody who said they didn't was either a masochist or fifty cards short of a full deck.

Most gunshot wounds to the arm resulted in minimal injury. Clean the wound, bandage it up, walk around in a sling for a few days, good to go.

Some, though, depending on where the bullet entered the arm, could cause extensive nerve and tissue damage.

Required more extensive care.

Additional surgery and physical therapy.

Some left behind permanent damage.

They wouldn't know how badly Markinson was injured until a doctor could take a look at his arm and assess the damage.

Hopefully, it was a through-and-through.

Good news if the bullet didn't fragment.

Bad news if it did.

JT went to look through the window but a drop of red on the step leading up to the entrance of the precinct caught his attention. He stared at the nearly perfect splotch, noted the shape it made on the concrete, the viscosity.

It didn't get there by chance.

Wasn't caused by someone waving an injury around.

No, that drop of blood got there one way, and one way only: dripping.

Like from an arm wound similar to the one Markinson had.

_Only, Markinson wasn't shot on the steps_ , he realized, brow furrowing.

He'd been hit standing beside the police cruiser they now took refuge from the sniper.

A quick look revealed other blood drops leading _away_ from the first instead of heading _towards_ the wounded officer.

_It's not Markinson's blood,_ he realized, gut twisting.

"Someone else was the target."

"What?" Dani glanced over at him. "You say something?"

"Look."

Dani followed his finger to the blood trail. Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed as she stared at the series of drops.

"That makes no sense..." she murmured slowly. "Markinson stumbled towards us after he was shot." She indicated blood near Bright's right foot. "That's his blood there."

"Means someone else was the target," JT said again. "Not us."

"But if the shooter isn't aiming for us... who were they shooting at?" Her brow furrowed. "And why're they shooting at us?"

"Diversionary tactic." Something else JT was more than passingly familiar with from his days in the military. He and his buddies had faced this sort of situation a number of times. Always with one purpose: "They're keeping us distracted so we can't focus on figuring out who the real target is."

"Giving them a chance to get to them."

"Mhm," JT grunted as another shot pinged off the trunk lid. "Two shooters were probably up there. One has gone after whoever they were here to kill while the other..."

"Is keeping us busy."

Another bullet shattered the taillights on the police cruiser. JT's finger tightened on the trigger. It wasn't like the gun was of any use. Even if he could spot the shooter from this distance, he couldn't shoot 'em.

"Who do you think they were after?" Dani glanced over at Gil, Bright, and Light-Bright. "If it's not one of us?"

It was a good question.

One JT fully planned to delve into once they were out of danger. For now, he grunted and rumbled, "No clue," as an ambulance screamed to a stop a few cars from where they crouched. The EMTs didn't leave the cab, though. Not after another shot from the sniper blew out one of the headlamps.

"Where is that damn helicopter!?" Gil snapped.

"Chopper should be here in a few," Dani told him. "They were five minutes out."

As if on cue, a police helicopter swept over the top of the precinct and headed for the buildings across the street. JT spotted the sniper perched in the opening seconds before they took aim. He counted the number of seconds between the lifting of that M24 and the single shot that rang out.

Less than five seconds.

Quick, clean.

" _Suspect down_." The radio Dani rest on the ground beside her buzzed. " _Repeat. Suspect down."_

The street became a flurry of activity then. Cops poured out of the precinct as EMS raced over to check on the injured. JT stood and holstered his gun while looking around.

Thankfully, the street not been as busy as usual. With the exception of Markinson, the worst injury he saw was a woman with a cut across her cheek.

"JT," Gil said as he stepped back to let the EMTs check on Markinson. "You and Powell get Batman and Robin inside." He aimed a look at the two in question. "Sit on top of them if you have too."

"You got it, Boss." JT hooked Bright's arm and steered him towards the entrance. "Let's go."

"Gil..." Bright started but Gil shut him down.

"Go, Bright."

Bright went, only after Bright-Light took his hand, though.


	22. Chapter 22

"Mr. Bright!" Malcolm turned to see Edrisa push her way through the crowd gathered in the bullpen to where he stood with Sorcha, Dani, and JT. "You're okay."

Her round face shone with relief and joy. The examiners concern over his well-being touched Malcolm. As it always did when someone showed him an ounce of concern. He tended to appreciate anyone who didn't view him as a nuisance, problem or annoyance. Especially given how his list of supporters was rather on the small side at that moment.

"I'm fine, Edrisa." He smiled as warmly as he could given the tennis balls bouncing around in his stomach. "Thank you."

"When I heard there was someone outside shooting..." Edrisa's eyes behind her glasses went wide as saucers. "Well, I had a feeling they were shooting at you."

A snicker sounded behind him. Malcolm shot Sorcha a look over his shoulder. "Why are you laughing?"

"'Cause most of the shootings in this department have involved you."

"Not all..." he protested.

"Nope, not all." Her dimples winked. "Just most."

"The number of shootings went down while you were on vacation," Edrisa pointed out. Unnecessarily in Malcolm's opinion. "It was really quite boring while you were gone. No exciting cases happened while you were on vacation. Well, I mean murders still happened and all but they were nowhere as interesting as the ones that happen when you aren't on vacation."

"That wasn't a vacation." The words were bitter on his tongue. "It was more a forced lockdown than a vacation."

One imposed on him by his mother and Gil. Neither listened to his pleas. They decided — jointly or separately, it didn't matter to Malcolm — what was best for him without consulting him.

"I know it wasn't Hawaii." Sorcha's fingers curled around his quaking ones. His anchor in the middle of this crimson ocean they found themselves adrift in. Offering comfort and solace. Easing the balls of anxiety and pushing back the miasma wanting to rise into his throat. "But it was still a small slice of paradise to me."

Until he screwed things up between them.

Like he always did.

"Sorch..."

"We can discuss us later." Her fingers squeezed his. Full of promise and silent reassurance. "For now we need to focus on who that shooter was."

"And how they knew to wait here at the precinct for the opportunity to shoot Bright." Dani's face tightened. "Or you." Her gaze met Sorcha's questioning one. "We can't discount you as their target."

"Me?" Sorcha's brow puckered. "Why do you think they'd pick me over Gil, you or JT?"

"Because losing you would hurt Bright the most."

Just the thought of Sorcha being taken from him almost sent Malcolm to his knees. The idea was simply unbearable.

Unimaginable.

Unthinkable.

Unacceptable.

"Losing any one of us would hurt him," Sorcha predictably countered with. "Especially so soon after losing Eve."

That she believed losing her would simply hurt him annoyed Malcolm as much as it stung. Why wouldn't she think that, though? He hadn't exactly put her first for much of their relationship. He routinely pushed her aside for work or people like Eve, who used him for their own advantage and then cast him aside.

He pushed her into the arms of a predatory sociopath.

Almost got her killed.

Had their intimate life exposed.

Almost got her killed... again.

The guilty Malcolm already carried took on more weight. His fault, he realized as phones started ringing around him. It was all his fault. His dad killing twenty-three people, Watkins, Endicott, Robert and Tammy Lynn... all of them came into their lives because of him.

Because he hadn't the sense to stay away from New York.

_Or end it once and for all._

Malcolm's head buzzed. His chest constricted. The pit in his stomach burned hotter. None of the things that happened in the last seven months would have if he hadn't been such a coward.

' _Fix it now._ ' The shadow creatures smiled at him from within the caverns of his mind, beckoning him with razor-sharp claws, their red eyes promising the oblivion he sought the other night before Gil showed up to order him placed in cuffs. ' _Free them. Free_ _yourself_.'

It be easy to do, he realized. So easy.

A few too many of his battalion of pills.

A slice of the wrist from a sharp knife or piece of glass.

A scarf around a doorknob or ceiling fan.

Walking in front of a bus, throwing himself off the roof of a building, taking a nosedive off a bridge.

There were multiple ways he could think of that'd see Sorcha, Gil, his mother and sister, Dani and JT all safe from Endicott.

He just needed the guts to finally see it through.

"The sniper wasn't shooting at either Bright's skinny ass or Bright-Lite."

JT's voice snapped Malcolm back to himself. For the moment, anyway. He freely acknowledged he only had a tenuous grasp on sanity most days. That thread, though, had been steadily unraveling since Watkins told him he and his father planned to kill him on that camping trip.

Any second he expected it to snap and plummet him down into the arms of the dark things waiting in the abyss for him.

"Wait, are you saying Malcolm _wasn't_ the target?" It was a toss-up between which of them was more surprised, him or Sorcha. A frown creased her brow. "The shooter _wasn't_ shooting at him?"

"Or you." A look was all JT needed to part the throng of people still milling around the bullpen. He headed for his and Dani's cubicle once a path opened up. "Not this time, anyway."

Malcolm translated that as meaning another shooter could aim for her next time.

_Not happening,_ he decided as Sorcha's hand tightened on his. _I won't let anyone hurt her or anyone else. Not because of me._

"You're positive the shooter wasn't shooting at Malcolm?"

"Or you." JT flicked a mildly amused look at her. "You keep leaving that part out."

"She's like Bright." Dani didn't smile but there was a slight softening to her lips. "Doesn't consider her own safety and well-being."

"I assumed Endicott hired them to kill Malcolm."

Malcolm had assumed the same thing. It made no sense they wouldn't be shooting at him. Not when Endicott was doing everything in his power to keep the truth about his empire from being revealed.

"How do you know for sure they weren't shooting at me or Sorcha?" he questioned JT. "It was chaos out there. How can you know for sure they weren't shooting at us?"

"Cause there's a blood trail outside missing a victim."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "There's a blood trail?"

"By the stairs."

"Only Markinson was shot..." Malcolm frowned. "And he wasn't by the stairs."

"Nope." JT dropped into his chair with a soft grunt. "Means someone other than you and Mini-Bright was the target." He didn't need to add, _for once_. The look he gave Malcolm said it for him.

"If they weren't shooting at me or Sorcha..." Malcolm's frown deepened. "Who were they shooting at?"

And what is their connection to all this?

"Oh!" Edrisa exclaimed, startling all of them. "I think I might have the answer to that!"

"Edrisa," JT rumbled. "Keep the explanation short for a change."

"Don't be a dick," Dani scolded as Edrisa scurried over to retrieve something from Malcolm's desk. "Every lead we get brings us one step closer to figuring out what the hell is going on."

"Yeah," JT said as he typed something into the computer, "but the clock is ticking."

Edrisa returned, waving a small yellow packing envelope. "A man delivered this for Miss Corbin right before the shooting began."

"For me?" Sorcha's eyes blinked wide. "Who would deliver something to me here at the precinct?"

JT grunted. "Think the better question is _why_ did they deliver it and what is it."

Dani eyed the envelope with a mixture of distrust and disdain. "Last time something was delivered here to the precinct in a yellow envelope..."

"They turned out to be pictures of me and the dope here." Sorcha's face filled with embarrassed color, but she showed no shamed. Unlike Malcolm who prayed for the floor to open up and swallow him. "Not forgotten about those."

"None of us have." JT took the envelope from Edrisa. "Hoping this ain't any appendages..."

"Maybe it's another thumb," came from Edrisa. "Would have a pair then. Of course, they wouldn't be from the same person..."

"Edrisa," came from Gil as he joined them. "Not the time."

"Oh, sorry."

Gil shot a look at the cops who inched forward to see what was in the envelope. Malcolm found himself envious of his ability to command without having to say a single word. Even his mother was more intimidating than him.

"Was there a note with the envelope?" Gil's hand rest on the back of Malcolm's neck, lightly squeezed. Comfort and reassurance. "Anything to suggest who it is from or why they delivered it to Sorcha?"

"Nothing on the front but Mini-Bright's first name."

"Just her first name?" Dani's eyes narrowed. "That suggests they know her."

"Or only know her by her first name," JT pointed out.

Malcolm held his breath as JT slowly peeled open the envelope and looked inside. "Huh." He shook the contents out into his hand. "It's a couple of vials."

"Vials?" Malcolm inched closer despite Gil's fingers tightening on the back of his neck. He couldn't stop himself, though. He needed to see them for himself. "Of what?"

"The blood used to frame you for murder." Sorcha picked up one of the vials. Held it up for them all to see. "My money is on one of these vials containing Eddie Smith's own blood. The other is..."

"The blood they planted to make it look like Mr. Bright did it," Edrisa finished for her in a hushed voice. "Oh, that's good. It'll definitely prove he's not guilty."

"We need to get that blood tested as fast as possible," Gil said. "Edrisa..."

"Not here." Edrisa's sighed as she stared at the vial Sorcha held. "The blood would be sent to an outside lab to be tested."

"It can't be sent out," Malcolm said as he stared at the vials. "Endicott owns the labs we use."

"I know a laboratory we can send the blood too." Sorcha's eyes met Malcolm's. "So do you."

Malcolm's mind stilled as he realized what laboratory she meant. "You think we should ask Raya to test the samples?"

"I don't think we have any other choice, Mal." Her mouth thinned into a cold, hard line. "We don't know how many laboratories Nicholas Endicott owns or has financial stakes in. Pretty safe bet he doesn't have his hooks in either her or the man she was mentored by."

Malcolm was pretty sure he didn't have them on his payroll, too. Asking Raya to run the samples was the only way they could guarantee the results were accurate. Still, he didn't like it. Sending the samples to her officially brought her into the fight.

Not that Raya would mind.

Why would she?

She took down men like Nicholas Endicott on an almost daily basis.

Gotham, after all, had plenty of megalomaniacs running criminal empires.

"She's our last resort option."

"No." Sorcha took the second vial from JT and slid it back into the envelope with the first. "She's our secret weapon."

"Secret weapon?" Dani looked between them, a frown between her eyes. "What're you talking about?"

"They're talking about Doctor Raya Kean." Gil guided Malcolm towards the conference room. "Capable Bright as I call her."

JT snorted a laugh. "She's not a danger prone dumbass?"

"Raya Kean is the danger," was Gil's reply.


	23. Chapter 23

" _So, you said Malcolm's in trouble_." There was a hint of wry humor in that voice — a low, lovely voice. A calming one. Soothing. Desperately needed after everything that happened the last few days. _Last few months, really_ , Sorcha clarified as she closed the door to Gil's office. " _How much trouble is the dope in_?"

"I'm calling you for help." Sorcha slowly scanned the room, searching for anywhere Ian Turner might have hidden the files he and her father put together on Nicholas Endicott and Martin Whitly. "Is that any indication of how much trouble my dopes landed himself in?"

" _So, Bright-Boy's in it all the way up to his pretty little eyeballs, is he_?"

"Yeah," Sorcha breathed out as she made her way over to Gil's desk. "You could say that."

It was by no means an understatement. Her dope was in the middle of a pit of quicksand and sinking, fast. Her and his team were keeping him afloat, but the rope was steadily fraying. Any second he'd go under and they'd have no way to pull him back up.

" _Well, I have to give it to Malcolm_." Raya's sigh sounded as exhausted as Sorcha felt. " _He's at least a consistent disaster_."

Being a disaster was one of a handful of things Malcolm Bright was consistent at. Still, Sorcha felt compelled to point out, "He's never been in this kind of trouble before, though."

" _He hasn't been the prime suspect in a murder investigation before, no_."

"Well, he has been in his own mind." Sorcha checked the cabinets behind Gil's desk. When that turned up nothing, she moved to looking inside the drawers. A definite long shot given how Gil used the cabinets on a daily basis. She could leave no avenue unturned, however. Those files were somewhere in this office. She was sure of it. She just needed to find where. _Quickly_. "You know as well as I that he holds himself accountable for every one of the murders Martin Whitly committed."

" _Yeah, well, I keep telling him he's wrong about that_." Sorcha empathized with the resignation in Raya's tone. " _Not that that bird brain listens to me any better than the rest of my bird brains when I tell them anything_."

Sorcha's lips twitched. "Yours giving you problems, too?"

" _Mine are always huge pains in the asses_."

"Well, there's a difference between yours and mine." Sorcha checked inside the cabinets. There were plenty of files but none bearing either her father's handwriting or the names she searched for. "Yours aren't accused of murder."

" _For once_."

Sorcha shut the cabinet and turned back towards the rest of the office. Frustration burned beneath her skin, but she tamped it down. Anger wouldn't find those files or help Malcolm out of his predicament. Something she conveyed to the woman on the phone.

"If we don't prove Mal's innocence in the next few hours he will be joining his father in prison."

There was no need to add how Malcolm wouldn't survive a place like Riker's. Raya was as aware as she about what he'd face if he got sent to prison. No protection from the guards or staff, his father's legacy adding to the bullseye on his back, Malcolm would be lucky to survive an hour.

" _Wait_..." Raya couldn't quite mask the surprise in her voice. " _Martin Whitly is in prison_?"

Sorcha couldn't blame her for her reaction. She had been equally as surprised when Gil told her he received word of Whitly being transported to Riker's after attempting to break out of his cell at Claremont.

Raya, her uncle, and her grim mentor had tried to get him transferred to Blackgate for the murder of six Gothamites for over fifteen years.

All to no avail.

Everett Sterling blocked each and every attempt with ruthless precision and cold calculation. Same as he had to squash their every attempt to arrest and charge Raya's father with the murder of her mother.

"He's sitting in Riker's as we speak." Sorcha crouched to check under Gil's desk. A long shot, sure, but it wasn't like she had anything to lose. Every place she looked was one less on the list. "Surprised you didn't hear about it before we did."

" _Things have been chaotic here_."

"Another prison breakout?" Sorcha grimaced. "Or is the Joker running amuck?"

" _More like our moronic mayor has decided to build a supermax prison in the middle of the city_."

"He does remember he's the mayor of Gotham, right?"

" _Sharp used to be warden of Arkham_." Raya harrumphed. " _He should know better than any of us how dangerous locking up our criminals in one section of the city is_. _How he got voted in is beyond all comprehension_."

"Friends in low places?"

" _Even the roaches hate Sharpie_."

Sorcha chuckled softly. "Smart roaches."

" _So, how did Doctor Whitly end up in Riker's? Not that it isn't where a monster like him belongs_ ," Raya clarified. " _I'd have locked him up simply for what he did to Malcolm if I could have_."

"Me too."

She'd love to put the needle in the man's arm for what he did to Malcolm. For what he continues to do to him, Sorcha amended as she checked the bottom drawer. The half-full bottle of whiskey and matching glass tumblers made her smile. She didn't fault Gil for needing an occasional drink. Cops didn't have easy jobs despite what the media and certain groups tried to say. They saw the ugliest of human nature. Dealt with the worst situations. Were there bad cops? Of course. There were bad people in all wakes of life.

Nicholas Endicott a prime example of that. A man of wealth and privilege who used his money and position for evil instead of good.

" _We couldn't have made those charges stick any better than we could murder charges_."

"You wouldn't have gotten Whitly into Blackgate, anyway."

" _Because of his lawyer_?"

"Who is now dead."

" _Sterling is dead_?" Sorcha imagined the shock in Raya's voice was also on her face. " _When? How_?"

"Thanks to the same man who put Martin Whitly in Riker's." A man who hid his predatory nature behind a smooth, sophisticated facade, and five-thousand-dollar suits. "A man he was working for while he operated as the Surgeon."

" _Martin Whitly was working for my father during the time he was the Surgeon_..."

Martin Whitly's partnership with Raya's birth father, Matthew Berkeley was how Malcolm ended up meeting Raya and her unusual family in the first place. Well, that, Sorcha amended as Gil entered his office and because Matthew Berkeley tried to have Malcolm killed as revenge for Martin failing to kill Raya and her mother.

"Who is also dead."

A catastrophic earthquake claimed the life of Matthew Berkeley. With his death went any and all possibility of them proving Doctor Whitly was an agent of Berkeley's. The cataclysm also made it impossible for Batman, Commissioner Gordon, and Gil to investigate where the bodies were hidden. The United States government decreeing Gotham as No Man's Land further complicated matters. The only good that came from that was Malcolm being trained in a variety of different fighting styles and weapons by the woman on the other end of the phone.

Not that her danger prone dumbass used any of that training to help save himself.

Sorcha heaved a sigh as she moved to check under the couch for anything resembling a batch of files. "Apparently, Whitly was also working for Nicholas Endicott at the same time he worked for your father."

" _Nicholas Endicott? As in the head of the Endowment for the Arts_?"

"Yes." Sorcha ran her hand on the underside of the couch, feeling for any bulges. There were none. She sat up, disappointed but not defeated. "I'm going to guess you know him?"

" _Bruce does. They're on a number of committees and chair a few different projects, in fact_."

Sorcha wasn't surprised about that. Many of the upper crust of society pursued philanthropy as a means of creating a caring, compassionate social image. Jessica Whitly assuaged her guilt over what her ex-husband did by donating money to various charities and organizations.

Nicholas Endicott used his to conceal what a monster he was.

"I believe he's the head of a serial killer ring."

Gil made a sound that was equal parts resignation and amusement. Sorcha shrugged, not seeing the point in concealing anything at this point.

" _Why do you think he's head of a serial killer ring?_ "

"Malcolm's father, John Watkins, Robert Harwood... they all worked for Endicott."

In her ear, Raya made a low, speculative sound. " _And they're all serial killers._ "

"They're just the three we know about." Sorcha had a feeling her father had other names to add to the list. Names none of them would expect to find.

" _Uncle Jim believed there were others involved with my father. Never could prove it, though. Not with Sterling acting as legal representative_."

"Your father trafficked women, didn't he?"

" _Drugs, women, weapons_." Raya's voice dropped an octave. " _Children_."

"So, it wouldn't surprise you to find out your father was part of a serial killer ring."

" _My father likely started the damn ring and invited Endicott to join it_."

That wouldn't surprise Sorcha.

Nothing involving Martin Whitly, Nicholas Endicott or even Raya's father could shock her at this point. Well, Sorcha amended as keys clacked on the other side of the phone. If we found out the son of a bitch actually has horns, and a tail might freak me out a little...

It just wouldn't come as that big of a jaw-dropper.

Not after everything Endicott had done.

"My father was helping Ian Turner investigate this serial killer ring." Sorcha put the phone on speaker and set it on Gil's desk so she could rummage through the last filing cabinet in the room. Another long shot but one worth taking given the importance of the files in question. "Turner figured out Endicott was connected to it. That's why he was killed."

" _Chief Turner came to see me and my uncle, Jim, a few weeks before he was murdered_."

Sorcha spun away from the filing cabinet, excitement chasing away her frustration at not finding the files.

"Turner was in Gotham?" Gil placed a hand on his desk as he leaned forward. "Raya, are you sure?"

" _I was at the meeting, Gil_ ," Raya replied. " _He wanted help with an open investigation that had stalled. Came to ask us to take a look at the evidence and see if we couldn't help him find something to go on_."

There was only one open investigation happening at that time that Ian Turner would have been interested in.

"The Junkyard Killer." Sorcha lifted her eyes to Gil's surprised ones. "He brought the Junkyard Killer case to you, didn't he?"

" _How did you guess?_ "

"Why?" Gil asked, frowning. "Did he think there were victims from Gotham attributable to the Junkyard Killer?"

" _He had two potentials and one that we could confirm as being one of the victims_."

"Who was it you connected to the Junkyard Killer?"

" _Marian Carter_."

"I know that name." Gil's frown deepened. "I've heard it somewhere before."

" _She was the final victim that we believe my father had Martin Whitly kill,"_ Raya supplied. _"Marian's remains were found in her missing BMW in a junkyard in your neck of the woods._ "

"That's how Turner figured out Watkins was working with Martin Whitly," Sorcha said to Gil. "And that Nicholas Endicott was involved." Excitement fired her blood. "He pieced it together through the connection to Gotham."

"Raya," Gil said, face hopeful. "Did Turner have any other file with him?"

" _I believe so, why_?"

"Because Ian Turner said he left files on Martin Whitly and Nicholas Endicott in a place that has importance to Malcolm, myself, and Dad. Where it all began, he called it." Sorcha took a seat on the edge of Gil's desk. "I translated dad as meaning Gil." Her eyes moved to a photograph sitting on a corner of the desk. "What if dad was simply a code word and the place he means as to where it all began as Gotham? Gil, James Gordon, my father, Bruce Wayne... they all connect to one person."

" _Malcolm_." A, " _Hmm_ ," sounded. Amusing Sorcha and Gil. " _You're thinking Chief Turner gave your files to my uncle_?"

"I'm thinking he gave them to your uncle to give to the one person even Nicholas Endicott can't intimidate."

" _Well, he can certainly try and intimidate Batman_." There was humor again in that low, lovely voice. _"I just guarantee it won't go well_."

"For him."

" _Precisely_."

"You go ask your mentor if he has those files," Gil ordered as he straightened. "Call me if he does."

" _I'll bring them with me when I come to collect your blood samples_."

"You're coming to New York?" Gil heaved a sigh. "I'll fill out the paperwork."

" _Already done. Check your top drawer_."

Gil shook his head, a smile playing about his mouth. "You're just like your mentor."

" _Which is good for you… bad for bad guys like Endicott_."

"We need something good to happen," Sorcha said with a sigh. "God knows the last few days have been anything but."

" _We'll get Malcolm out of this_." Every word was coated in velvet steel. " _Now, can one of you tell that danger prone dope something for me_?"

"Stay out of trouble?" Gil joked. "Bright can't do that any better than you."

" _Funny_ ," Raya replied dryly. " _No, I want you to tell him something else_."

"Sure." Sorcha picked up her phone. "What?"

" _Rise_."

The call disconnected. Sorcha looked at Gil. "You want to tell him what she said or shall I?"

"I'll let you tell him what she said after I get done skinning his hide for ignoring my orders." Gil headed for the door. "You can take him home in ten minutes. Straight home," he clarified, shooting her a stern look over his shoulder. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Dad."


	24. Chapter 24

Gil allowed his mind to wander as the conversation between Bright, Powell, and JT droned on. It wasn’t he found the topic unimportant. Getting the kid out of his predicament was important. Just as figuring out how far and deep Endicott’s reach went. The only way to do either rest on the files Ian Turner and Sorcha’s father put together.

Files, Gil learned before joining everyone in the conference room that had quite possibly been placed in the hands of a man he met after someone else from Martin Whitly’s past tried to destroy his family. He had worked with Batman on a number of off-the-book cases over the years.

Like James Gordon, the police commissioner of the Gotham City Police Department, he came to rely on Batman’s help with cases the line of the law refused to allow him to cross. Batman could do what he was blocked from doing, investigate the places and people he couldn’t, focus on suspects in ways he wasn’t able to.

Gil hadn’t considered the former Deputy Chief might also have turned to the Dark Knight for help.  _I should have though_ ,  he realized as JT grunted softly at something Bright said. It made sense for Turner to place such important files into Batman’s hands. Not only was the man the World’s Greatest Detective but the resources at his disposal allowed him to protect the files in ways the rest of them couldn’t.

If anyone could figure out how Endicott framed Bright, it was the Dark Knight. He could work the case without worry or fear of reprisals or retaliation from Endicott or any of his henchmen. Raya was correct in Batman being the one person Endicott couldn’t intimidate or control. He wouldn’t be able to use his money, social standing or retinue of associates to bring the grim hero to heel. Batman, and more specifically,  _ Bruce Wayne _ , was equal in terms of power, money, and control.

Bruce’s decision in 2011 to announce himself as the Dark Knight’s financial backer surprised him. At the time, Gil thought it a colossal mistake that’d come back to bite Bruce on the ass. Now, though, he could see the benefits that came from publicly announcing Wayne Enterprises as not only supporting Batman but aiding his endeavors by creating the tech he uses in his war on crime.

While Nicholas Endicott also had an unspecified number of politicians, high ranking government officials, law enforcement, business people, and assassins at his disposal, Batman had his proteges, friends, and a host of associates he could call on for support.

If Gil was a betting man, he’d call Vegas and put his life savings, meager as they might be, on Batman.

Having Batman, and, by extension, the rest of his family involved with Bright’s case bolstered Gil’s confidence greatly. Gave him a spark of hope they’d not only bring Endicott to his knees, but put a lot of corrupt men and women in jail cells right along with him.

Maybe, just maybe, they’d finally put Martin Whitly somewhere where he couldn’t get access to a phone or computer. An excited grunt from JT snagged Gil’s attention. He had no clue what had been said to cause such a reaction, deep within his thoughts as he had been, but clearly it was something he should have been paying attention too.

“Eddie being dead before Bright got there opens up our suspect list to doctors, nurses, even a few techs.” JT glanced around the table with renewed vigor. “All of them came through earlier that evening.”

_ Any one of which could have killed Eddie_ _._ Excitement coursed through Gil as he pushed to his feet. Finally, after days of nothing to work with, they had something they could actually go off of.

“We can make a list of everyone who went in that room.” His eyes met Bright’s warily optimistic ones. “This is good, kid.”

It was beyond good, actually.

“But...” Bright paused; frowned. “What was Endicott doing?”

“You said it before, Bright.” Dani’s tone was as somber as her expression. “Endicott only fears one man.” Gil steeled himself for when she said, “Your father.”

Last person Gil wanted involved in this case was the man who created the situation in the first place. He didn’t dare tell Bright that. Not after what happened at Claremont between Eddie and Martin Whitly.

“Problem is,” Bright said somberly. “Nobody can talk to him. Claremont's cut off all comm...”

“No, no,” Gil interjected. “He’s not at Claremont.”

“If he’s not at Claremont...” JT said slowly. “Where is he?”

“They moved him to Rikers about thirty minutes ago.”

What color was in Bright’s face drained away.

“Gen pop?” Gil nodded. Fear burned in the kid’s eyes. “That's Endicott,” he said. “He's breaking their deal.” Bright silently begged him for his help. Something Gil couldn’t give him. Not even if he wanted too. “Gil, this is serious.”

As if he didn’t know how serious things were at this point for Martin Whitly. There was just nothing he could do for the man. He used up all his favors to get him hired as a consultant. Something he tried to convey to Bright. “Kid...”

“My father has the answer and he might not...” Bright wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. A clear indicator of his rising anxiety. “He might not last long in Rikers.”

Least of all since they had no idea who Endicott had on the inside of the prison.

“I know he won’t.” Much as Gil wanted to see Martin Whitly removed from Bright’s life once and for all, the man getting killed in prison wasn’t the way he wanted to see it happen. The stale coffee Gil drank before coming in to skewer Bright sloshed around in his belly as he walked around the table to unlock the kid’s cuffs. “All right, I can cut you loose for now. Say we don't have enough to charge you. But...” he firmed his voice. “I can't get you into Rikers.”

“Don't worry.” A small smile flitted across Bright’s face, worrying Gil. “I know someone who's good at getting into all the wrong places.”

“I know I’m not about to hear you say you’re going to go see your father in Rikers.”

Gil didn’t need to glance at the clock above the door to know they had surpassed the ten minute mark.  _ She’s at least patient _ , he mused as he looked over to see Sorcha framed in the doorway of the conference room, a look on her face he recognized as one of Jessica’s, and her arms folded across her chest in a way that said, loudly, she wasn’t open to discussing the matter.

“Oh, I know that look,” JT muttered as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Seen it after I said I was gonna go somewhere or do something Tally didn’t agree with.”

“What look?” Bright asked curiously.

“The  _your ass best think again_ look that’s on your girl’s face.”

Not that Bright would do that. When it came to Martin Whitly, his kid was blind. Gil tried to tell himself he understood why. The man was  technically his father. Twenty-three bodies and years of manipulation and control couldn’t erase the ten years of hot cocoa, hugs, bedtime stories, and camping trips.

Much as he might wish it would.

“There’s nothing to think twice about here, though,” Bright predictably said. “My father...”

“No, Malcolm.”

“Sorch...”

“The answer is no.” Soft, but firm. “I’m not budging on this. Not this time. No way.”

“He’s the one with the answers,” Bright tried. As if that’d sway Sorcha to his side. “He’s the only one who can tell us what Sophie had on Endicott.”

“Or we wait for Raya to see if my father’s files are in the hands of her mentor.”

That worked to distract the kid.  _ As she knew it would _ , Gil mused, hiding a smile. If anyone knew how to get Bright’s mind off his father, even for a few minutes, it was Sorcha.

“Raya thinks Batman has your father’s files?”

“She says Turner gave a set of files to her uncle when he was in Gotham, yes.”

Bright’s brow furrowed. “Ian Turner was in Gotham? When? Why?”

“He asked for their help with the Watkins case right before he was murdered.”

“Why would he take a New York case to Gotham, though?” Dani asked. “All the victims were from New York.”

“Not all,” Sorcha replied. “One of the bodies found in the junkyard belonged to a cold case in Gotham.”

“Who?” Bright didn’t bother to mask his excitement. “Who did they find?”

“Marian Carter.”

“I remember that case,” JT said. “Wife of Andrew Carter ,  owner of Hill Bros. Went missing in 1996.”

“How’d you know about that case?” Dani asked, one eyebrow tilted.

“Tally watched a movie based off her disappearance.”

“ _ Gotham by Gaslight: The Marion Carter story _ ,” Sorcha said. “Malcolm and I watched it, too.”

“Color me shocked,” JT deadpanned.

“We watch more than movies about murder and murderers,” Sorcha shot back with a twitch of her lips. “There’s also wholesome old school classics like  _ Harvey _ in there and Batman, of course.”

“Bright always reminded me of Red Hood.”

“Well...”

“Focus,” Gil interjected before they got too far off topic. “Marion Carter.”

“Whose body was found in the trunk of a BMW from another of Gotham’s cold case files.”

“Which one?”

“Helen Rochester.” Sorcha laid her phone on the table so they could all see the photo of the crushed luxury vehicle. “I went down and talked with Dr. Tanaka while waiting for you to free my dope. She got the license plate from the photograph. Matches the missing BMW that belonged to Helen Rochester.”

“Turner linked Watkins to these murders.” Bright’s eyes met Sorcha’s across the table. “To my father.”

“He also figured out Endicott was somehow involved.” Sorcha picked up her phone and slid it back into her pocket. “Something he couldn’t risk having exposed.”

“That’s why he had Watkins kill him.” Bright positively vibrated from the energy pulsating through him. Gil couldn’t blame him. He hummed with the need to get out there and do some old fashioned detective work himself. “He had to prevent Turner from exposing how far back his involvement was and who he was connected too.”

“We can use that information to locate who else he might be working with.” Gil placed his hands flat on the table to keep from curling them into fists. “Put together a possible list of his allies and associates by looking at those connected with Matthew Berkeley.”

“Which could help in locating who got into Eddie Smith’s room and killed him.” JT made for the door. “I’m on it.”

“Me too.” Dani pushed to her feet. Hesitated before looking at Bright. “I want to trust you, Bright, I do,” she said. “But...”

“The evidence points to me until we prove otherwise,” Bright finished for her. “I know, Dani. If I was working the case, I’d be thinking like you.”

“Bright, you’ve been working this case the whole time.” Something Gil hadn’t been enthusiastic about the kid doing because of the dangers involved. “Now, you need to let us work this angle.” He halted Bright’s objections before he could launch them by adding, “Go home with Sorcha. And go straight home. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. “We’ll go straight home.”

“Guess we can’t stop for won ton soup and gelato...”

“Straight home,” Gil repeated. “After you pickup dinner.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Gil pointed to the door, unamused. “Go.”

They did, Bright still sputtering protests and Sorcha refuting them as she pulled him along.


	25. Chapter 25

_Do I remain here in New York as planned or do I find somewhere else to go?_

Horacio Caldera pondered that as he entered his study a little after ten that night. Should he stay here in New York City, where he stood a good chance of being found by one of the Court’s expertly trained henchmen or should he leave the city, heading for somewhere with less potential for discovery? 

To many, the answer would seem like a simple one. For Horacio, it was anything but. Leaving the city not only came with the question of where to go but where to go that was safe. The possibilities of what places filled both criteria played through Horacio’s mind as he took a seat at his antique desk. 

The Court had eyes and ears everywhere. Government, law enforcement, business, and finance, there wasn’t a bureaucracy, organization, or institution in the world the Court didn’t have members or associates. 

That the ruthless cabal hadn’t managed to find out he was hiding here in New York amazed him. He chalked it up to luck more than anything. The risk of discovery had always been high. The potential ramifications of his decision heavy on his mind. Horacio had no choice, though. He couldn’t continue working for such a ruthless bunch. 

He had to run. 

The protection offered him by the city’s inept police department if he talked guaranteed death. Not even the venerable Dark Knight would be able to keep the Court from sinking their talons into him. 

No, his only hope for survival was to find somewhere the Court didn’t have any influence or member representation. A task made increasingly difficult because there were few places the Court _didn’t_ have some form of representation or control. Here in New York, alone, they had over two dozen associates and seated members, the most dangerous being Nicholas Endicott. 

Horacio thankfully had only dealt once with the man. Cold, calculating, cruel. Those were the words that sprang to mind whenever he thought about Endicott. A man one did not cross. Ruthless in business and his personal life. Failures were dealt with swiftly and brutally. Betrayals a death sentence. 

The systemic decimation of the Whitly family proved how far Endicott would go when seeking vengeance. Of course, Horacio also knew this was about more than teaching Martin Whitly a lesson. No, Endicott was also acting on orders from the Court. What those orders were, he couldn’t be sure. Horacio suspected, though, they stemmed from the events that happened seventeen years ago. 

_Where my service to the Court began._

Horacio clicked on his desk lamp as he recalled the cataclysmic earthquake that rocked Gotham. The devastation of the quake and subsequent actions of the United States government in declaring Gotham as _No Man’s Land_ threatened the Court with exposure. 

The Court called on him to erase their involvement with Matthew Berkeley and Nicholas Endicott. He destroyed the books, got rid of the paperwork that proved the organization funded a secret network of killers, hired the man who worked with the Surgeon to get rid of the bodies the Talons left in their wake. 

What choice did he have, though? _When the Court calls on you, they not only expect you to answer but to comply with their request, as well._

His biggest mistake was believing he’d be free of the Court once he finished with what they asked of him. Nobody left the Court’s service. 

Not alive, anyway. 

The few before him who tried all died horrible, excruciatingly painful deaths. A shudder ran through Horacio as he remembered the ways some died. Electrocuted, suffocated, burned, drowned, eviscerated... avoiding any of those as his own fate was his top priority. 

To do that, though, he needed to find a place where the Court couldn’t find him, and Talons couldn’t easily invade. _Ittoqqortoormiit, Kerguelen Island, Oymyakon, Easter Island... where can I go they can’t find me?_ There were not a whole lot of places for him to pick from that the Court couldn’t dispatch one of their many Talons. 

_Perhaps I should be considering places like Antarctica or Siberia..._

_Yes_ , he realized, excitement pulsing beneath his skin. Talons couldn’t function in extremely cold climates. Their physiology didn’t allow it. Freezing them was one of the few ways, next to incinerating them, to stop the bastards. _Yes, perhaps a cold climate is my best bet for surviving..._

The question was: _where_? He needed somewhere Talons couldn’t get to him, but which wasn’t completely isolated from anything resembling society. Horacio got up to retrieve a book from his bookshelf but froze when an icy voice spoke behind him. 

“Horacio Caldera.”

Fear crashed over him in great big waves, sucking the air from his lungs, and almost folding his legs beneath him. _No_ , was Horacio’s first thought after his mind started functioning again. _It can’t be Talon. It can’t be. I was so careful!_

Clearly, he hadn’t been as cautious as he believed. 

Foolishly, almost desperately, Horacio hoped; prayed it was Batman or one of his winged brats here to take him back to Gotham so he could answer for his role in the deaths of so many innocent people. He stood a chance of surviving the night if it was any of Gotham’s costumed do-gooders come for him. They could be reasoned with. 

Talons didn’t listen to reason. 

They didn’t listen to anyone but the Court. 

“Turn around,” the assassin ordered. 

Horacio wet his dry lips with his tongue as he slowly turned to face the ominous figure. “Why are you here?” 

A bluff, sure. Dangerous given the figure lurking in the shadows behind him. A being deadlier even than Deathstroke. 

_And that’s saying something given how dangerous Slade Wilson is..._

“The Court has sent me to express their disappointment with your decision to terminate your services.”

Horacio’s heart dropped into his stomach. _Terminate his services._ He had known this would be their decision once his defection became known. There was no negotiating with the Court of Owls. There’d be no reprieves. 

_Once the Judge of Owls decided my fate..._

They dispatched this expertly trained assassin to carry out their sentence. 

Horacio stared at the object standing between him and his only real means of escape. 

The double window behind him the other, less desirable option.

Metal-rimmed goggles with yellow, circular lenses and a black cowl with a jagged beak for a nose gave the imposing figure an eerie, owl-like visage. 

Who was beneath that cowl? 

Horacio didn’t know. 

Not that it mattered in the end who his executioner was. 

It wouldn’t save him from the deadly fate awaiting him. It wasn’t like they’d answer to their former name if he used it. They were called Talon. 

It was all they responded to. 

As they had been programmed to do. 

Talon wore his black body armor with the same comfort and ease Batman wore his. That protective outer layer rendered the gun in the top drawer of his desk useless. Even if he could get a decent shot off, the rapid healing ability his nocturnal visitor possessed would only grant him a few extra seconds. 

Seconds that he couldn’t use to either buy himself any sort of a reprieve or make an actual escape.

The black-leather bandolier slung diagonally across his would-be assassin’s chest bore testament to what his likely end would be if he tried to make a run for the door. A half-dozen gleaming metal throwing knives with one more in a sheath at his hip sent chills down Horacio’s spine. 

Two scabbards crossed each other atop Talon’s back, the hilts of the swords forming an _X_ above his shoulders. Steel gauntlets with razor-sharp claws resembled the talons of the particular bird the Court chose for its mascot: _an owl_. 

One didn’t live in Gotham without acquiring a working knowledge about the city’s infamous menaces. He could name dozens of times where the likes of the Joker, Poison Ivy, and Scarecrow terrorized the city. They had nothing on the Court who used architecture and assassins like these to wield their power and influence. A nursery rhyme passed down through generations gave the clandestine cabal an almost fairytale-like quality:

_Beware The Court of Owls, that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed, speak not a whispered word of them or they'll send The Talon for your head._

And a Talon they did send. 

“Sit.” Talon indicated the high-backed wood chair in front of the desk. “Now.” 

Horacio dropped into the chair without qualm or complaint. What else could he do? It wasn’t like he could stand up and fight this merciless killer. Even Batman had difficulty against these mercenaries. 

“I-I don’t understand what you mean by terminating my services.” Prevaricate. Deflect. Feign confusion. A gamble, sure. It wasn’t like Horacio had anything to lose. His life hung in the balance either way. “I never left the Court’s service.”

Talon didn’t reply. He simply paced back and forth behind his chair, further unnerving Horacio more than he was already. 

As the bastard intended.

His mouth went dry as a fingernail scraped the back of the chair. His limbs turned to rubber. He was acutely aware of how empty this house was. There was nobody to hear him scream. 

His wife, Marta, divorced him over ten years ago. His only other family was his son, Miguel. Miggy was safe, though. He lived in Brooklyn with his wife, Sunny, and their newborn baby, Jackie. 

“Please,” he whimpered as Talon bumped his chair. “Just make it quick. That’s all I ask.” 

“We’re going to have a conversation before I carry out your sentence.” The avian mask concealed the man’s expression, but not his harsh tone. “About your son.”

“Miguel?” Horacio blinked in surprise. “What does he have to do with this?” 

A dry chuckle escaped Talon. “Don’t you know? The Court has figured out another way to bring Barbatos from the Dark Multiverse.”

Horacio didn’t understand what Miguel had to do with the centuries-old prophecy. Something he conveyed to the dark figure looming over him. “Miguel cannot help the Court bring Barbatos here.”

“He is your firstborn son.” A long finger tapped the silver frame. “As your granddaughter is his firstborn daughter.”

Tears slicked Horacio’s cheeks as his gaze strayed to the silver frame perched on the corner of his desk. Miguel smiled back at him as he held his wife and newborn daughter. Happy, carefree, unaware of the judgment passed down on him.

That his son and granddaughter would be killed by this diabolical assassin so the Court could bring the Bat-God here scraped away what little remained of his nerves. 

“Please, no.” As if pleading with this figure would accomplish anything. Still, Horacio tried. For Miggy and for the granddaughter he had never even met. “They don’t need to die to bring the Bat-God here. I will do whatever the Judge asks of me if he will spare their lives.” 

“The Judge disagrees.” Talon drew one of the knives from his bandolier. “The Judge’s word is final.” 

“Fenix!” he screeched. “She can bring Barbatos here!” 

“How?” 

“She’s a descendant of Lydia Doyle.” 

Horacio didn’t know if that was true or not, but he recalled a conversation he overheard between the Grandmaster and Matthew Berkeley. About his daughter being descended from a woman with the ability to harness what he called the “burning sickness.”

“I shall inform the Judge.” 

“No, pleas—!”

He didn’t get the chance to finish that final plea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! As I explained in chapter one, I have decided to take this story in a different direction by turning it into a crossover/AU. I'm doing this largely in part because of what is going on currently in season 2, and not being sure where the show will end up is where I want to end up. So, I'm introducing Batman into things and working with a group of villains I have never gotten to work with before: the Court of Owls. Hopefully, I am tying things between the universes together and building a larger scale scheme that aptly suits both universes. For the curious, my story Mirror, Mirror establishes a lot of the relationship between Malcolm and the Batman family. I don't think it is necessary to read one to understand the other but it's there for those who find themselves wondering at aspects. As always, thank you for reading, take care!


	26. Chapter 26

The house was dark by the time he and Sorcha arrived back... well, Malcolm wouldn’t call it _home_ because it wasn’t _home_ to him. It stopped being home after his father was arrested for killing twenty-three people. Home for Malcolm had become a menagerie of places over the years: Gil and Jackie’s, Wayne Manor, the apartments he shared with Sorcha and Mandy at Harvard, her parents house upstate, his apartment while he worked for the FBI, and finally, his loft. The last of which had been invaded by a woman twisted by a serial killer obsessed with revenge, and a detective on Endicott’s payroll who took pictures of them intended to incite rage and fan his desire for vengeance.

Part of Malcolm resented being forced to take up residence with his mother as the investigation into Eddie Smith’s murder was underway. There was only so much of his mother and her micro-managing of his life he could take before he needed to get away. Work used to provide him with the perfect way out. He didn’t have that at that moment because of two men: his father and Nicholas Endicott. 

Malcolm silently thanked whatever gods influenced his mother to call Sorcha, tell her what happened, ask her to come because he needed her. He didn't know why she did and he didn't care. She was there, supporting and helping him as she always did. As much as he didn’t deserve it or her. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to go get gelato?” he asked as he closed the door behind them. “ _Polosud’s_ twenty minutes away. We could get gelato and cannoli.” 

Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Food is the last thing I want right now, actually.”

“Stomach bothering you?” 

“Head and stomach.” She flashed him a wan smile. “Product of too little sleep, too much stress, and too much anxiety.” _All caused by him_ , Malcolm realized, grimacing. “Also haven’t eaten more than half a slice of toast in the last thirty-six hours.”

“You’re picking up my bad habits.” 

“Not eating because of anxiety is a habit I had before you.” 

“You did?” Malcolm’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember that...”

Why didn’t he remember that? 

‘ _Ah, that’s rather easy to figure out, my boy_ ,’ his father said from his spot at the opposite end of the foyer. ‘ _You tend to, uh, ignore what doesn’t interest you. Miss social cues. Fail to take the feelings of others into consideration. Oh, and, uh, blame everyone else for your problems_.'

Malcolm couldn’t deny the truth in his father’s words. He did tend to ignore what didn’t interest him. His understanding of social cues ranked up there with his knowledge of how to build a car or boat. Dani was a prime example of how poorly he did at taking the thoughts, opinions or feelings of others into consideration. Well-adjusted and emotionally stable people succeeded at forming happy and healthy interpersonal relationships. 

His healthiest relationships were by no means perfect. Relationships only thrived if the people involved put in an equal amount of work. Sorcha had been doing all the work the last fifteen years because he didn’t know how. He had no clue what the right moves were. He should, but he didn't. 

His life changed after his father was revealed as the Surgeon. His chances for forming friendships among his classmates, navigating social circles, and dating became riddled with taunts, physical attacks, and bouts of isolation. His romantic relationships before Sorcha were not healthy by any means. _Well_ , he amended as he slid his keys into his pocket. _My relationship with Raya was healthier than most of my others had been_. 

Again, because _she_ made all the moves. 

Murder and murderers were what Malcolm best understood.

Relationships made about as much sense as coding a video game. _Less than_ , he mused as Sorcha crossed the foyer to the stairs. _I could probably learn how to code a video game before ever figuring out all the things involved in dating_. 

“It happened mostly when we were bogged down with papers, tests, and other homework,” she said. “Yanno, the typical life choices made by frazzled college students.” She took a seat on the third stair with a small, tired sigh. “Forego food and sleep, live on coffee, attend class in the clothes you fell asleep in.” 

Malcolm hummed a laugh. “Or that you stole from me.” 

Her dimples winked. “Well, you always knew where your clothes were.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. As she intended. It sometimes galled him how well she understood his moods, his needs.

Course, she just got _him_.

More, Sorcha accepted him. 

Didn’t consider him an acquired taste. 

See him as a freak or monster. 

Refused to accept him as broken. 

Never believed he was the same as his father. 

They experienced more together in fifteen years than most people married the same length of time. 

“ _You, uh, still pushed her away, my boy. Chose the woman who walked away after she got what she wanted from you_ ,” his father said. Again, words of bitter truth. “ _Not exactly the foundation for a happy, healthy relationship._ ”

Malcolm chose to ignore him. 

Not because what his father said wasn’t true. It was. Malcolm freely admitted he didn't know how to handle the intricacies of interpersonal relationships. He barely functioned as a friend and co-worker. Something he swore to become better at once this mess with Endicott was resolved. _With her help,_ he decided as he moved to sit beside her. 

“Do you remember the day we met?” 

“Of course.” Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. “You were sitting in the _fight-or-flight_ seat looking so lost and lonely it broke my heart.” 

Malcolm ducked his head to hide his smile. “You know what I remember about that day?” 

“Knowing you,” she teased lightly, “everything.”

“I remember the smell of your perfume.” That hauntingly exotic mix of jasmine and vanilla that always settled and soothed him. “It kept me from running out of the room in a panic.” 

He also hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her legs. He didn’t share that part with her, though. Why, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t like she didn’t know. _Right_? A frown creased his brow as he wondered at the answer.

“Why do you think I’ve never changed it?” 

Malcolm blinked and looked at Sorcha. “Because of me?” 

“Mhm.”

He could only stare at her, stupefied. It never occurred to him that why she didn’t change her perfume was because of him. He should have realized it, though. Especially since Ainsley and his mother changed perfumes based on what was in style and suited their particular tastes. This year, in fact, was _Chanel_ for Ainsley, and _Yves Saint Laurent_ for his mother. Something Malcolm only knew because Sorcha bought them bottles of perfume for Christmas. 

“You know so much about me.” He stared down at the polished floor, wishing it’d open up and suck him down into the dark abyss where the shadow creatures waited to torment and torture him. “You know my likes, dislikes...”

“I chose to learn those things.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Didn’t what?” 

“Learn those things.” Moisture gathered in the corner of his eyes, blurred his vision. “I didn’t learn any of those things about you.”

“Malcolm.” Her fingers closed over his trembling ones. Gently squeezed. Quiet comfort and support. Neither which he deserved. “You know lots of things about me.” 

“Not like what you know.” His stomach twisted into greasy knots. A combination of guilt, grief, and a never ending wave of regret. “You put everything into this... into _me_. And all I’ve done is hurt you.” 

Over and over he hurt her. Chose superficiality over substance. Fantasy over reality. Lies over truth. Sorcha called him an adrenaline-junkie. She wasn’t wrong. He needed the excitement that came from chasing after suspects, running down leads. He needed to take risks, face the possibility of danger. More than that he needed the bright bite of the pain so he could feel something other than empty. 

“Loving someone means opening yourself to the possibility of being hurt.” 

His father said the same thing a couple of weeks back. The words then had been about Eve and his suspicions about her keeping secrets. “You deserve better than me.”

“I’m a borderline masochist.” Her lips curved, warm with affection and amusement. "Got it from this danger prone dumbass that sucks at relationships.” 

The ends of his lips curled. “You’ll develop a tremor next.” 

“Mine is in my knees, actually.” Her smile was wry. "Easier to hide."

“You fidget when you’re nervous.” 

“See?” Sorcha slid her fingers between his. “You know things about me.” 

“Not as much as I should.” 

“You know more about me than you think.” 

“Not enough.”

“Are you terrible at reading cues or saying the right thing? Yes.” Her thumb lightly traced the back of his hand. Seeking comfort as much as giving it. “Are you unaware of when you’ve hurt me? Yes.” Simple truths that stung worse than a bee. “Do you know how to respond when I have been hurt? Yes. You took care of me after Robert.” Her fingers tightened on his. “And after Tammy Lynn.”

Guilt swirled as Malcolm recalled the emotional hell Tammy Lynn put them through. Hurting him was one thing. He deserved it after everything his father had done. Sorcha was innocent, though. She hadn’t deserved the pain and humiliation Tammy Lynn inflicted on her. 

Because of _him_. 

“It wasn’t hard to take care of you. You lived on peppermint tea.”

“And jelly beans.” 

Malcolm hummed a quiet laugh. “Only black licorice. Anything else is a crime.” 

Sorcha nudged him gently. “That’s you about red and green Jello.” 

“There’s only one acceptable flavor of Jello.” 

“Lemon.” Sorcha slid over next to him. “I know.”

“You know me so well...” His fingers spasmed in hers. “Understand my quirks.”

“And your kinks.” That hauntingly exotic scent of hers wrapped itself around Malcolm as she rest her head against his. “Don’t forget I know those, too.”

“You’ve never judged me.” No matter what asinine thing he said or did. “You believed me about Sophie when others didn’t.”

“Because it wasn’t something you’d make up.” 

Malcolm turned his nose into her hair, breathed deep. “I wondered sometimes if I hadn’t made it up.” 

“It was real,” Sorcha said firmly. “ _Sophie_ is real. You didn’t make her up.” 

“We have to find out what she had on Endicott.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “My father is the only one who can answer that, though.” 

“Malcolm...” Her sigh tingled along his sensitive flesh. “No.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, we do.” Soft, but firm. “We can wait to see if Batman has my father’s files.”

She had a point. Malcolm couldn’t deny that. They could wait to see if Batman had those files. Use them to put Endicott and everyone on his payroll in jail. A part of him, one he was ashamed of, wanted; needed to see his father. As if he was a child instead of a grown man with a degree in psychology. 

“Please, Mal.” 

Her soft entreaty undid him. Sorcha asked for so little. He owed her this much. 

“We’ll wait and see if Raya brings the files with her tomorrow.” His phone vibrated in his pocket but he chose to ignore it. His luck it be his father calling him from Rikers. He couldn’t afford to lose this phone as he did the last one. Not even if throwing it against the door would make Sorcha feel better. “Okay?”

“Thank you.” Her lips whispered over his forehead, his cheek. Setting off a different set of aches. “How about I go and make some tea? Think we could use it after today.” 

Malcolm’s lips curled. “Earl Grey?” 

“Earl Grey.” Sorcha huffed as she got to her feet. “Just for you.” 

Malcolm waited until she disappeared through the doors into the kitchen before pulling his phone from his pocket. His brow furrowed as he read the message splashed across the screen:

[ _little things matter to women like her and Raya_ ]

An escrima stick was the only clue Malcolm needed as to the identity of the messenger. It didn’t surprise him to find out they had one of Gotham’s guardians standing watch. _Or that they installed cameras in the house_ , he mused as he opened his phone and typed a reply.

[ _roped me into sitting watch?_ ] was the reply from the man perched somewhere outside. [ _she’s in your kitchen and talking with your girlfriend_ ]

His body quaked as realization crashed over him in icy waves.

Raya was _there_.

In his mother’s house.

That could only mean one thing…

_Batman had the files and she brought them._

Malcolm lurched to his feet and stumbled wildly towards the kitchen, breath an icy sludge in his chest, and his heart beating wildly against his ribcage. He burst into the kitchen, surprising the women seated at the counter. 

“Mal?” Sorcha questioned, one brow tilted. “Something wrong?”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the woman seated across from her, though. Amusement and mischief shimmered in those green eyes that lifted to his, curved those pale lips. Was so achingly familiar.

“You’re here.” Malcolm’s breath shuddered out of him as all the anxiety, fear, and despair inside him settled. “You’re actually here.”

“You doubted I would be?” Raya slid off the stool and crossed to him, every step reminding Malcolm of a jaguar stalking its prey in the jungles. “You’re family, Malcolm. And you know how I am when it comes to my family.”

Malcolm did know. He watched firsthand as she burned Gotham to the ground to save her best friend — _husband_ , he realized as she came to a stop in front of him. Dick Grayson was not only her best friend, but her husband now, as well.

“Ah, Gil won’t like you blowing up buildings to get to Endicott.”

“I don’t need to blow up buildings to get to him.” Raya tossed her head. Folded her arms across her chest. A warrior ready to go to war. “Ian Corbin’s files will bring him to me.”

“Batman had them then?” He looked over at Sorcha. “They’re real?”

“And damning.”


	27. Chapter 27

“Damning?” Malcolm’s hand spasmed against his thigh. Excitement more than nerves or stress. Things were finally starting to go in a positive direction. _Finally._ “The files are that detailed then?” 

Not a surprise given the three men involved. All three tended to pay close attention to details; facts. Were nothing but thorough, leaving no stone unturned or theory unchecked. Once they found a trail to follow, they followed it to the end. That’s what made them formidable adversaries to men like Nicholas Endicott.

“I can see why Endicott wants to get his hands on these files.” Sorcha’s small, delicate fingers lightly touched the tablet set before her on the counter. Malcolm imagined them stroking his hair, his face. “If this information ever gets out, he’s done for.”

“Are there lists of those who are in his pocket?” Anticipation of what the files contained chased away Malcolm’s fatigue. “What organizations he’s affiliated with? His shell corporations?”

“It has all of that.” Sorcha got up to remove the kettle from the stove before it started whistling. “And more.” 

“Why didn’t Batman use this information to stop Endicott?” He aimed the question at Raya while watching Sorcha move about the kitchen. “What was he waiting for?”

“Malcolm, you have to understand that this isn’t just about Endicott. There’s a group Endicott’s involved with that are a far larger threat that Batman has been working to destroy.”

That... didn’t sound good. Malcolm hadn’t spent much time in Gotham in recent years. His obligations to the academy, the FBI, and then the NYPD kept him busy.

_‘That’s a, uh, bit of a lie_ , _isn’t it, son?’_

Malcolm hid a grimace by ducking his head. Much as he didn’t want to admit it, his father spoke the truth. The FBI and his consulting job weren’t the main reasons he avoided Gotham and the people who were another family to him. The biggest reason was the woman staring at him, head slightly tilted to the side, mouth pursed. Her eyes, though, were what held Malcolm’s attention. They were green. Not hazel green, not emerald, not green flecked with hints of gold or brown or blue. 

Just a pure and hypnotic shade of green. 

They were the eyes of a predator, farsighted yet focused on her chosen prey. _That being him_ , Malcolm realized, fingers rattling against his thigh. Sorcha wasn’t the only one with the ability to see through him. Raya could, too.

To a more accurate degree.

If anyone understood the dark things inside him, it was Raya. The same shadow creatures dwelled within her that did him. Her traumas were also tied to her father. A man who hired his father to kill her and her mother. _And when my father failed to kill them_ , he thought as a sound came from upstairs, _he shot her mother in front of her_.

Matthew Berkeley then tried to get revenge on his father by kidnapping him and Raya. The only thing that saved them was a cataclysmic earthquake. Raya’s father died during the initial tremors but his hold on her remained.

Much like his father’s did him.

Raya had thus far remained quiet about a few of his... _questionable_ choices of late. Meaning she was waiting for her moment to lecture him, remind him he had family and friends who loved him, and be heartbroken if something bad happened to him. She’d also insist he stop seeing his father, and after he refused, enlist the rest of the family to press her point. 

Subtle, Raya was not. 

Especially when it came to the people she cared about. 

“Malcolm?” Raya’s hand brushed his. “You okay?”

“I’m—”

“No,” her and Sorcha said in unison. 

His brow furrowed. “But—”

“Use that word.” Raya’s tone was like tempered steel. “I dare you.” 

Malcolm relented. What choice did he have? It wasn’t as if he stood a chance against either of them. “I thought Endicott was head of his criminal emperor?” 

“He is head of his own empire.” Raya moved back to her seat. “He is not, however, the head of the entire empire. That position belongs to someone else.” 

“Who?” 

“All we know is they are called the Judge of Owls.” 

“Owls?” Malcolm’s hand spasmed as images of people in owl masks flashed through his mind. “You’re not talking The Court of Owls?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

_That_ , Malcolm realized as Sorcha poured hot water into mugs he had never seen before, _is not good_. 

Not that things had been all that great before she revealed the organizations involvement.

The Court of Owls added a complication they didn’t need. Added to the danger already surrounding them. Malcolm first learned of the Court while attending Gotham Academy. One didn’t live in the city without hearing about this mysterious group of elites who proceeded over Gotham. Whispers of the secret society reached the ears of the FBI a few months after he graduated the academy. Because of the years he spent in Gotham, and his close relationship with the Wayne family, Malcolm was dispatched to work alongside Batman and his specially chosen task force. What they found went beyond anything Malcolm anticipated. Multiple “John Does” with bodies crucified by antique throwing knives, all marked with the image of an owl. 

‘ _Strix varia_ ,’ his father said. ‘ _They readily grab whatever prey they can find but one of their favorites is_...’ 

“Bats,” Malcolm murmured. “They prey on bats.”

“Hm?” Sorcha set a mug of tea in front of Raya. “What about bats?” 

“Owls hunt bats.” Malcolm wet his suddenly dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “They’re the natural enemy of bats.” 

“One bat in particular.” Raya folded her fingers around the steaming mug. “The Court has become obsessed with destroying Batman.”

“Why?” Sorcha questioned. 

“Batman threatens their control over Gotham for one.” 

The Court, and specifically their Talons, pushed Batman almost to his limits. Malcolm recalled the injuries he sustained while trapped in the Court’s underground labyrinth. Scars added to scars from previous contests he narrowly won. Malcolm suspected Batman endured a wealth of emotional trauma while fighting his way out of the Court’s stronghold. Things he knew firsthand would never heal. Not that Batman would acknowledge it if directly asked. 

“Are the stories about the Court true?” Sorcha handed a mug to Malcolm but he turned it down with a shake of his head. His hands shook hard enough now he feared he’d dump hot tea all over himself. Sorcha set the mug next to her own and returned the kettle to the stove. “Or are they embellished to make them seem more fearsome than they are?” 

“Zack Snyder likes to think he created a new league of villains with the Court of Owls.” Raya lifted her mug to take a careful sip of the fragrant brew. Mint. The only kind she drank. Like Sorcha. “He merely took some of the lore and designed a comical rendition of it.” 

Sorcha’s lips twitched. “Not a fan, I take it?”

“I was of the original story he released.” Her mouth thinned into a hard line. Full disapproval and disdain. “But he then took it too far when he introduced the Batman Who Laughs and his retinue of psychotic Robins. All to fulfill his desire to have Batman kill.”

“Gee,” Sorcha lightly kidded, “Tell us how you really feel.”

“Don’t get her started,” Malcolm warned. “She’s like me about the wrong flavor of Jello.”

“Nobody’s as bad as you about the wrong flavor of Jello, Bright-Boy.” The fondness in her pet name brought a smile to Malcolm’s lips. “Even Alfred stocks only your favorite flavor.”

“And Twizzlers.” 

“Bruce bought him black licorice once,” Raya said. “Ten minute diatribe on how terrible it is. And he _supported_ his stance with honest to god facts.” She smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “Bruce wanted to adopt you right then and there.”

“Because I made an argument about black licorice being terrible?”

“Because you made an argument he couldn’t argue against.” Raya set her cup down. “Let’s focus on the Court of Owls, though, shall we? They’re the present threat we need to worry about.”

“Are we talking Cartel or Taliban level here?” Sorcha asked. 

“Let’s say the Court of Owls makes the League of Assassins look like a street gang.”

Malcolm wished Raya was overstating things but she wasn’t. If he had to choose between the Court or the League, he’d pick the League. They only had to worry about expertly trained assassins, bat-human hybrids, and the fanatical Ra’s al Ghul with the League.

Talons were deadlier and more formidable an enemy. 

“They’re that massive an organization then?”

Raya nodded. “The Court has operations on every continent, agents in nearly every organization around the globe, and a slew of Talons they can awaken at any moment to carry out their orders.” 

“And Endicott is one of them,” Malcolm said. “Right?”

“As was my father.” Raya’s face remained cool; composed but her eyes told a different story. A wealth of things Malcolm understood far too well darkened those green depths. “I will assume a member of the Milton family was too.”

“Don’t tell my mother.” Malcolm grimaced. “You’ve seen how well she handled my father being a serial killer.”

Alcohol, pills, sarcasm, and helicopter parenting barely scratched the surface of how well his mother coped with what his father was. 

“I’d be surprised if Jessica doesn’t know about the Court, actually.” Raya glanced at her phone when it buzzed. Malcolm assumed it was her cousin letting her know she was almost finished with whatever modifications were being made to his mother’s security system. “Not the corrupt organization with a retinue of undead assassins part but the compromised of only the crème de crème of high-society one.”

“How does Martin Whitly fit into this?” Sorcha brushed her hair back behind her ears. Glanced at Malcolm when he sighed. “We know this has something to do with him. It always does.”

“Your father wondered that, as well.” Raya waved towards the tablet. “It was what he was working on before he passed away.”

Sorcha’s eyes widened. “My father was looking into the Court of Owls?” 

“The Court became your father’s focus after Deputy Turner took over the Watkins-Whitly case.”

“Why, though?”

“I’m not sure,” Raya admitted with a small, sheepish smile. “Batman didn’t allow me full access to the files until tonight.”

“You didn’t have full access to them?” Malcolm couldn’t mask his surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I was barred from investigating anything related to your father, my father, Inceptive, and the Court while I was pregnant.”

Malcolm’s eyebrow tilted. “And you obeyed?”

“Unlike you, Jason, and the dope I married, I listen when my mentor tells me to back off.” 

Malcolm shot a look at Sorcha when she snickered. “Don’t encourage her.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Right.” Malcolm looked back at Raya. “I also know you. You only pretended to listen.”

“I did listen, Malcolm. I did not investigate. I did, however, ask Calvin Rose to see if he could figure out where the Court had bases of operations, who the presiding members are, and what Talons they might awaken. The Court of Owls instructed Endicott to put together his ring of serial killers. Calvin obtained documents from the man who helped cover their connection.” She indicated the tablet with a nod. “Something else your father was also looking into. He just couldn’t figure out why given the Court have Talons at their disposal.”

“And Batman hasn’t figured out why, either?”

“Oh, he has a theory.”

Malcolm had only been feeling moderately grim up to that point. Something told him that was going to change once Raya revealed Batman’s speculations as to why the Court allowed the use of men like his father.

Like John Watkins.

Like Robert Harwood.

He couldn’t shy away from the truth, no matter how bad it was or how hurtful it turned out, though. Neither could Sorcha, who sighed, and said, “You're about to tell us something we’re not going to want to hear, aren't you?"

"I’m afraid so, yes."

Sorcha slid out of her chair to move closer to him. “Alright.” She slid her fingers between his. Strength and support. Comfort and solidarity. None of which he deserved after how he treated her. “Tell us.”

“Batman believes this has to do with a prophecy.” Raya’s expression was as grim as her tone. “One about a demon who was created at the dawn of time.”

“A demon?” Sorcha frowned. “What demon?”

“He’s called Barbatos.” Raya’s sigh shivered through Malcolm. “He’s the…”

“Destroyer of the Multiverses,” Malcolm whispered, hand spasming in Sorcha’s.

“Yes,” Raya said. “And the Court wants to bring him here by killing all firstborn children of Court members.”


	28. Chapter 28

“Bruce,” Jessica said as they exited his private box at the Lincoln Center, “you really didn’t have to invite me to tonight’s performance.”

A smile curved Bruce Wayne’s lips as he escorted her through the throng of people to the stairs. “It was my pleasure, Jessica.”

It wasn’t a lie. He managed to enjoy the evening despite his initial reluctance to it. ‘ _Or a reticence to having fun,’_ as Alfred accused on the ride into the city. Bruce dismissed that notion. As he had Dick’s unnecessary quip about him not knowing how to have fun. He had a passing familiarity with the concept. His public lifestyle necessitated his having fun. Driving his fancy sports cars at inappropriate speeds, flying off to wherever when the mood struck him, squiring around a different woman every night, attending exclusive parties and events, buying restaurants because they refused to do something he wanted... it was all part of the playboy facade he maintained to conceal his nocturnal career.

It wasn’t he was averse to spending an evening at the ballet with Jessica. Far from it, actually. He delighted in her company. Any other night and he’d have been thrilled to spend the evening with her. The Court of Owls and their involvement with the man trying to ruin her and her children prevented him from being able to fully relax and enjoy himself. He spent most of the performance searching every face for either Court members or their associates. 

Facial recognition software picked out a few individuals he’d research once he returned back to his penthouse. Nicholas Endicott not attending the ballet surprised him, though. He, as well as Raya, suspected he’d attend the second half of the performance once word of Jessica arriving at the ballet with Bruce reached him. Endicott not doing as they anticipated either meant the Court called him to a private meeting or he was busy with another part of his plan. 

Neither good. 

“You typically attend the ballet with Raya.” Jessica’s fingers curled around his elbow as they descended down the stairs. “I don’t remember you or her missing a performance once in the last sixteen years.”

“We’ve missed a few.” Those cancelled by the earthquake that ripped Gotham apart when she was sixteen being one example. His being lost in the _Omega Sanction_ , another. “Not often, though, you’re right.” 

“Does she still dance?” 

“Yes.” Bruce’s lips curved. “Ballet is how Raya copes with her anxiety.” 

“Oh, I wish Malcolm had not given up ballet,” she said wistfully. “Dancing was the only thing, outside of solving every homicide in New York, that made him happy.”

“Malcolm still dances, Jess.” 

“He does?”

“Malcolm filled in as Raya’s partner a few times during the 2017-2018 season.” He smiled at an elderly couple standing to one side of the staircase. If they reminded him of his mother and father, he didn’t dwell on it. Bruce learned not to acknowledge many things over the years. “I have the footage from their performances.” 

He recorded every performance, speech, and presentation. A fact only Alfred was privy too. Bruce didn’t classify himself a sentimental man. However, he wasn’t an uncaring one. His children, and grandchildren, were the greatest joys in his life. He had momentous and keepsakes like any parent. Treasures that reminded him of when his children were small and their problems easy ones to solve. 

A frown feathered her brow. “I wasn’t aware he even owned a pair of ballet shoes much less still danced.”

“Raya nettles him until he gives in.”

A trait Dick claimed she got from him.

“That’s why it surprises me Raya did not want to attend tonight’s performance. She lives for the ballet.”

“There was no convincing her to attend tonight’s performance after she found out about Malcolm’s being arrested on suspicion of murder from his girlfriend.” 

He decided to not tell Jessica it was Raya’s idea for him to invite her to attend the performance in her stead. He hadn’t been able to fault her line of reasoning. She was the best choice to talk with Malcolm. She could explain the Court and Endicott’s involvement. Where his father fit into things. Handle his questions, his anxiety, assuage his concerns.

“Sorcha isn’t Malcolm’s girlfr...” Jessica broke off with a sigh. “Yes, she is. She’s been his girlfriend since the two were at Harvard. Though neither one seems able or willing to admit it.”

“Dick and Raya were the same way about their relationship.” Denying the truth, saying they were only friends; partners. Scoffing whenever any of them pointed out they were more than friends. “It was easier for them to not admit what everyone else was telling them.” 

Bruce partially blamed himself for Dick and Raya denying their feelings for as long as they did. They learned to compartmentalize from him. Some called it a defense mechanism. Bruce tended to view it as a means of keeping their private lives separate from their public ones. 

“They’re married now. They have an adorable son.” 

“Only because my youngest son, Damian, decided to do something about it.” That _something_ being to get himself licensed as a wedding officiant and marrying the two before John Richard Grayson the Third came into the world precisely at 11:59 PM on the anniversary of the death of Ellen Rae Berkeley. Five pounds and six ounces with arms waving frantically, legs kicking wildly, and red face scrunched up as he protested his rude eviction from the warm cocoon that sheltered him for eight months and fifteen days. “If he hadn’t interceded, I believe Dick and Raya would still be like Malcolm and his girlfriend.” 

“Denying they’re a couple?” 

“Yes.”

“They have a child, though.” 

“They have _two_ children, actually.” Bruce caught her quizzical look from the corner of his eye. “Dick formally adopted Raya’s oldest son, Christopher, when he was a year old.” 

A move that had not shocked Bruce or anyone else for that matter. He had suspected Dick would chose to step up and become Kai’s father, not only because he loved the boy, but because he felt a responsibility to seeing him raised in the manner his father would have wanted. A small surge of guilt and regret shivered along Bruce’s spine. Had he only realized what the Joker was planning sooner...

“I wasn’t aware Raya had more than one child.” 

“Christopher was born after her first husband was killed by the Joker.” 

Bruce heard his bitterness same as Jessica. He didn’t apologize for it. There was no need. If anyone could understand his feelings, it was her. Her husband was almost in the same league as the Clown Prince of Crime. 

“A shame we can’t lock him in the same room with my ex-husband and see which one walks out the survivor.” A small, tight smile curved her lips. “Perhaps the fates will finally smile on us and they’ll end up killing each other.” 

Bruce doubted they’d be so lucky as they exited the building. Throngs of paparazzi lined the front entrance of the center, snapping shots for dozens of society columns, magazines, and various social media outlets. Flashes went off in rapid succession, practically blinding the people as they waited for drivers to pick them up. Bruce skirted the throng, knowing they waited to snap pictures of him and the woman he attended that evening’s performance with. Jessica was considered hot news because of Malcolm being brought in on suspicion of murder. 

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been arrested and formally charged with anything. The sheer fact a former FBI profiler was the primary suspect was enough for the court of public opinion to convict him. Headlines all over labeled him a killer. Some editorials compared him to his father while television journalists like Anderson Cooper wondered if there were not more bodies out there. 

Every word a falsehood that rankled deeply but which Bruce could not change. No more than he could the opinions of those journalists who labeled Batman a menace instead of a benefit. The only thing he could do for Malcolm was exactly what he had done: he sent Raya with the files that’d help prove his innocence. 

He also instructed Dick and Tim to sweep Jessica’s house for bugs and cameras before updating her security system to the latest software. He didn’t trust either Nicholas Endicott or the Court. Monitoring the house was his only option since convincing Jessica to leave New York until they could stop both stood about as much chance of happening as him officially retiring as Batman. 

Alfred waited with the car door open. “Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said as he waited for Jessica to slide inside the dark interior. “Has there been any trouble?” 

“None, sir.” 

“Good.” 

Not that he expected any problems to arise while he attended the ballet with Jessica. He trusted his children. Acknowledged their capability to deal with whatever situations were tossed at them. Recognized their strength and abilities. Even if they didn’t always feel like he did. Bruce was immensely proud of the children he raised. They grew into capable, compassionate, considerate adults despite the adversity they faced. 

Alfred shut the car door behind him before walking around to the drivers side. They left the throng of paparazzi behind a few minutes later. Bruce settled comfortably back against the seat and stared out the window, searching for a figure distinguishable by his ebony body armor and gleaming blades. An uncharacteristic chill swept through him when he thought he saw a pair of round owl-like goggles peering down at him from a rooftop. 

For a moment, he felt as if he was back in that underground labyrinth again, desperate, driven to the limits of his endurance, and afraid of what the consequences would be should he not manage to find his way out. He succeeded in escaping but the battle took an immense toll on him physically, as well as mentally. His phone buzzed and he reached into his pocket to retrieve it. His lips twitched as he scanned the short message his imp sent him. 

“Raya says to assure you Malcolm is home, will be remaining at home for the duration of the evening, and has promised to stay at home until she comes tomorrow morning for breakfast.” 

Jessica huffed a frustrated laugh. “If my son had remained home as he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have been at that office when the Devil was shot, and wouldn’t have had to go down to the police station to be interrogated.” 

“Malcolm wants to clear his name.” 

“That’s what the police and lawyers are for.” 

“They can only do so much against Nicholas Endicott.” 

Bruce didn’t tell her about the Court. Jessica had been put through enough by her ex-husband. Now the first man she allowed herself to become romantically entangled with in years turned out the head of a criminal empire with an affiliation to a secret society that made the Cartel look like a street gang.

“That man.” Fury tightened the skin around her eyes and mouth. “I’d shoot him if I knew I could get away with it.” 

Bruce didn’t doubt that for one minute. “Killing Endicott won’t solve anything.” It’d only guarantee the Court sending one of their Talons after her in retaliation. Bruce wanted to avoid that at all costs. “It won’t prove Malcolm’s innocence or benefit him emotionally.” 

“This is all Martin’s fault.” Jessica’s voice throbbed with anger and regret. “How I wish I never met that man.” 

“You wouldn’t have either your son or daughter if you had not met Martin Whitly.” Bruce rest a hand atop hers. “They’re the good that came from your marriage, Jess. Never forget that.” 

A soft sound came from the man up front. Bruce didn’t need to look in the rearview mirror to know Alfred’s eyes were shining with repressed humor or his lips carried a faint hint of a smile. Alfred wasn’t shy about expressing his opinions on him needing more in his life than Batman. 

“I want that man removed from Malcolm’s life once this is over, Bruce. Malcolm does not need his father in his life.” 

Bruce had a feeling that was one wish that’d come true. 

Especially if his imp had any say about it. 


	29. Chapter 29

Malcolm awoke the next morning, disoriented, but without any of his usual dread and panic. Things had changed in the last few days. His dreams were no longer centered around the girl in a box. Mostly because he not only figured out who the girl was, but that she was alive, and related to the ghostly figure hovering around the front of his bed. Most of his dreams centered around Eve. Not unusual given the circumstances surrounding her death.

He was accustomed to dreaming about things related to his father, murder, and his sketchy childhood. When he didn’t dream of those things, his dreams were often about unusual things like running through grocery stores in search of Twizzlers or being trapped in a room filled with the wrong flavored Jello.

He never dreamed about... _this_ before. 

Not in this fashion, anyway.

He had the usual assortment of dreams about children while working for the FBI. Dreaming about missing or murdered children was par for the course. Even Gil admitted to being haunted by cases dealing with children. Malcolm wasn’t dreaming about lost or dead children here, though.

No, he was dreaming about a living, breathing child. 

One with dark eyes and curls framing a face like burnished bronze. 

A little girl with a smile that chased the shadow creatures back to the dark chasms they belonged. 

_Jacqueline_. 

The name rolled through Malcolm’s head as he slid his thumb over the release mechanism and freed himself from his restraint. The details of the dream remained firmly etched in his mind. As did the conviction his dreaming about a baby wasn’t coincidence. 

It meant _something_. 

He just didn’t know what. 

Children weren’t something Malcolm envisioned for himself. Genetics, a tricky childhood, and his dependence on a cocktail of drugs to make him relatively functional were all valid reasons for why he wasn’t suitable parent material. 

Not that his mother agreed. 

No, she routinely pointed out to him how he needed to settle down and have children. 

Maybe that’s why he dreamed of this child. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His mother’s constant reminders about his familial duties and obligations had surfaced in other dreams. _This could just be the latest one_ _._ Malcolm considered that as he reached to free himself from his other restraint. He froze when his arm did not encounter the warm body of the woman who had been asleep beside him. 

_I’m alone,_ Malcolm realized, eyebrows arching. _Sorcha’s not here_. 

The question was: _where was she_? 

Malcolm’s brow furrowed as he studied the bed for any clues as to her whereabouts. The covers had been neatly straightened, the pillow smoothed and plumped. A hand on the blankets revealed they were cool to the touch. Sorcha had been gone, and for quite a while from the looks of it. 

_How long did I sleep_? It couldn’t have been long. Three hours was his customary amount. Five, if he was lucky. A glance at the window showed him the hour was somewhere between when deepest night had ended but sunrise not yet managed to turn the sky crimson.

_So, where did she go_?

A glance at the nightstand revealed the burner phone her uncle Jamie gave her was still plugged in. His, on the other hand, was missing. 

Sorcha liked listening to music or audiobooks while relaxing in a bath. _One way to find out if that’s where she is_. Malcolm kicked the covers off, stood, and padded across the room. Panic formed an icy ball in his belly when he saw the bathroom door, as well as the door to her bedroom were open. A quick check of her room revealed Sorcha’s clothes still in the closet, her bottles of perfume and lotions neatly set atop the dresser, and her makeup bag next to his shaving kit in the bathroom. 

She hadn’t left him. 

She was just... _missing_. 

“Maybe she has gone down to your father’s murder room,” Eve’s ghostly voice whispered behind him. “See for herself where your father brought his victims.” 

Like her sister had been before being placed inside that trunk and taken to that cabin in the woods. Where his father planned to kill her until Sophie convinced him she had files on Endicott and his secret operations worth letting her live. His father, in turn, used that information to obtain his private cell and the luxuries he enjoyed at Claremont. Malcolm found himself wondering if the files Sophie took were about Endicott’s involvement with the Court of Owls. 

It was a question he planned to ask Raya. For now, he needed to focus on finding Sorcha. Malcolm padded downstairs to see if she was in the kitchen. Cooking was her other outlet when she couldn’t sleep. The kitchen, however, was also empty. A glance at the stove showed the kettle sitting in its spot. Coffee had not been brewed.

Nerves bunched, pulsed as every corner he checked turned up empty. 

“Where are you?” he breathed aloud.

“Check your father’s hobby room,” Eve suggested again. 

“Sorcha wouldn’t go in there.” 

She promised him she’d never enter his father’s hobby room. Not without him there with her. Why he made Sorcha promise that, Malcolm didn’t know. His father couldn’t find her in that room. He couldn’t hurt her. 

“Your father can’t harm her physically,” Eve said as she floated before him. “But he can hurt her, Malcolm. He hurt me.” A sad smile curved her lips. “And you.” 

“You hurt me.” The words lacked the bitterness they once carried. “And I hurt Sorcha.” 

Over and over, he hurt her. 

Used her. 

Pushed her aside. 

All because he believed he deserved pain and rejection because of what his father was, for all he had done.

A sound, like the clacking made by those needle-thin stilettos his mother favored came from the foyer. That, he realized with a frown, made no sense. His mother wouldn’t be up for hours and Ainsley elected to return to her own apartment after her broadcast. Louisa didn’t wear heels. That left Sorcha. Malcolm immediately dismissed that possibility. Sorcha abhorred heels. She wore them only when necessary. The sound came again, skittering along Malcolm’s already frazzled nerves, fraying them further.

Did she go for a walk?

In the middle of the night?

With Endicott and Talons out there?

Malcolm frowned as he exited the kitchen and made his way towards the front entrance. The sight of the snow-white dog by the front door caused him to skid to a halt. Where the dog came from, how it got inside the house, Malcolm didn’t know. His heart hammered against his rib cage as he studied the dog. It was a mixed breed from the looks of it. German Shepherd and Labrador, maybe. Hair on the longish side. Red collar. Non-aggressive he hoped. The dog’s tail thumped against the floor as Sorcha entered, indicating familiarity. 

Had she gotten a dog after what happened with Tammy Lynn in his loft? He wouldn’t blame her if she had. Gabrielle had suggested him getting one after that but he rejected the suggestion. Dogs required significantly more than food in their bowl and fresh water. They needed a lot of time and attention. Malcolm had wanted a dog when he was younger but his mother had refused for a litany of reasons, the mess they made being the largest one. He opted for snakes, instead. They were significantly less work, kept Ainsley out of his room, and didn’t annoy his mother. _Much_ , he amended as the dog bounced around in front of Sorcha, tail wagging, and barking excitedly. 

“Quit that,” Sorcha ordered softly. “You’ll wake everyone up and then we’ll really be in for it.” 

“You’re going to be in for it soon as my mother finds out you brought a dog into the house.” 

Sorcha started. “Mal!” Her face flushed guiltily. “Did we wake you?” 

“No.” The dog sat in front of her and stared at Malcolm with eyes that seemed to peer into his soul. “Sleep issues, remember?”

She shrugged out of her jacket. “You were soundly asleep when I snuck out.”

Malcolm chose to ignore that for the moment. He waved to the dog. “Who’s your friend?” 

“Krypto.” At hearing his name, _Krypto_ , as Sorcha called him, sat up straighter, chocolate eyes shining brightly, tail slapping the floor in one rhythmic motion, and his great big tongue hanging out one side of his mouth. “Krypto, that’s Malcolm.” 

Krypto let out an excited sound and waved a paw at Malcolm, who felt a smile tugging at his lips despite the panic bouncing through his veins. “He’s friendly it seems like.” 

“Only to those he’s charged with protecting.” Sorcha turned to hang her jacket on the coatrack. “I have a feeling he will be less friendly with those who try to attack us.” 

Malcolm’s brow furrowed as confusion rolled through him. “He’s not yours?” 

“No.” 

“What’s he doing here then?” 

She hung her scarf up with her jacket before crossing the foyer towards him, Krypto at her side. “Seems Raya instructed him to stay here and keep watch after she and Nightwing left.” 

“He belongs to Raya?” 

“Her son, Christopher, actually.” A yip came from Krypto. Sorcha placed a hand on his head. “Hush or else you’re going to get us in trouble.” 

“Is that why you’re up so early?” Malcolm asked as he slowly held a hand out to Krypto. “He was making a fuss?”

“No.” She made for the kitchen. “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a walk.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me? I’d have gone with you.”

“I know.” Sorcha paused, her hand on the door jam. “I know you’d have gone with me...”

“But?”

“But I fell back into the pattern of repressing my own needs,” she admitted without looking at him. “Focused on you and what you needed… which was sleep.”

Patterns and routines. Malcolm had more than a passing familiarity with them. Much of his life was centered around maintaining routines. Some healthier than others. Breaking the toxic ones was somewhere he, too, struggled. 

“You…”

“—have so much coming at you right now between your girlfriend’s—”

“Ex.” Malcolm flinched at the harshness of his tone. “Sorch, I’m...” 

“Eve was your girlfriend, Malcolm.” The eyes that met his over her shoulder were achingly, brutally sad. “And she was murdered. By the man you’re currently accused of murdering in retaliation.” 

Truth, Malcolm was forced to admit, tasted foul. “She left me.” 

“Doesn’t take away from the fact that for a little over eight weeks she was your girlfriend.” No heat. No anger. No censure. Just simple logic. Something Malcolm couldn’t deny no matter how much he might have liked too. “She lived in your loft. Shared your bed. You were building a life with her.” 

“I was building a life with you.” 

Sorcha hummed a quiet laugh. “Our life resembles the Winchester Mystery House.”

“You were watching _Ghost Adventures,_ I see.”

Her lips curled at the corners. “Look at the man who doesn’t think he knows me figure out what I was doing before I decided to go for a walk.”

“Why did you go for a walk?” Sorcha’s face remained coolly composed. The product of growing up with a profiler for a father. However, little ticks and tremors gave away her anxious state. “You had a nightmare.”

She refused to meet his eyes. Telling him louder than words he guessed right. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Her wry look was all the answer Malcolm needed. “You should have woke me, Sorch.”

“Raya said the same thing.”

“You called Raya?”

It hurt, Malcolm realized, knowing she turned to others in moments of fear or pain. He only had himself to blame, though. If he was normal… well, there’d be lots of things he’d be able to do.

“Not about that,” she said with a sigh, “but yes, we talked about my dream.”

“Your fears, you mean.”

He sounded petulant. Like a child denied a toy. Like his father when he didn’t say or do what he wanted.

“This isn’t Watkins or Richard or Tammy Lynn,” Sorcha said quietly. “Hell, this isn’t even about your father anymore. We’re playing with a dangerous organization here, Mal. Even Dad feared the Court of Owls.” She folded her arms about herself. As she did when she was cold. “So, yeah, I’m having nightmares about blood and death and assassins with yellow eyes. And I needed someone to talk to about it. So, I called Raya.”

“You should be able to talk to me about this.”

“You’re right, I should.” The raw, naked vulnerability in the eyes that lifted to his hit harder than a train under full power. “So, let’s talk about it then.”

It wasn’t a huge step, Malcolm realized as he moved closer to her, but for them it was an important one. “Okay,” he said as Krypto rubbed against his lips. “I’ll make tea.” He slowly took her hand. “Peppermint, this time.”


	30. Chapter 30

The steam drifting lazily out of the opening of the travel mug perched on Malcolm's knee carried a scent that brought back memories of marathon study sessions and college anxiety, middle of the night conversations after he had one of his night terrors, and above all, the quiet comfort and support of friendship. Peppermint tea wasn't his favorite but he couldn't deny it didn't contain the same restorative power Earl Grey did. Malcolm breathed deeply, absorbing the fresh, minty smell, finding calm inside the chaos, and the familiarity of one of his healthier routines.

"You should have told me about your dream," he said once Sorcha finished. "You shouldn't have hidden it from me."

_She shouldn't have felt like she needed to keep it from me_ , he amended silently. Malcolm freely admitted he was completely clueless about things like relationships. Even he knew, though, couples shared things like bad dreams with each other. They worked through difficult times together. Supported and comforted the other when things became challenging.

Not that he and Sorcha were a couple.

Officially, anyway.

_And the reason for that is me._ Because he believed he deserved pain and misery for all the people his father hurt. Malcolm admitted he couldn't allow himself happiness because of the families out there grieving the loss of their loved one. Many found a connection with the Whitly's as socially unacceptable.

His mother suffered years of social isolation for having married his father. Ainsley encountered people who didn't believe she should have the same opportunities as other journalists because she was the daughter of the Surgeon. Malcolm feared he'd end up ruining whoever he was with socially simply by being with them.

Fixing things between he and Sorcha wouldn't be easy, though. Especially when the woman he let come between them in life haunted them in death. Malcolm didn't have to turn his head to know Eve floated by the window, gazing at him with her sad eyes, and the ghost of a smile on her lips.

"I did tell you about my dream." Sorcha smiled at him from over the rim of her mug. "So, technically, I didn't hide it."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "You only told me about it after talking with Raya about it."

"I didn't talk with Raya about it first, actually." Sorcha lowered her mug to her knee. "I actually talked to Dick about my dream before I did Raya."

"You talked with Dick?" Malcolm's brow creased at her nod. "Why'd you talk with Dick about it before Raya?"

"Well, Raya was busy running that blood sample so I talked to him while she focused on that." One corner of her mouth kicked up. "Kinda figured it was more important than her talking to me about a dream."

"It is," he agreed with a slight nod. "But she'd also tell you not to minimize the dream or how it made you feel."

"Dick covered that." Mischief shimmered in her eyes. "Have a feeling he plays therapist a lot because the therapist gets obsessed with her cases." Her lips twitched at his snort. "Gee, can't think of who that reminds me of..."

"Gil calls her Capable Bright."

"Because she actually uses the skills she was taught." Sorcha's tone was wry. "She doesn't run blindly into danger."

A sound, almost like a chuckle, came from the dog asleep on the floor. Malcolm shrugged that idea off. Krypto might be from the planet of Krypton but that didn't mean he possessed the ability to laugh.

"Raya runs into dangerous situations all the time."

_Dangerous situations_ were the specialities of Gotham's silent vigilantes. They could do what the police couldn't. Enter the places they were barred from. Investigate where they couldn't. _As they are now with Endicott._

"She hasn't chased a serial killer into a service tunnel and gotten her ribs crushed in a turnstile."

Malcolm had one word in response to that: "Joker."

Sorcha was ready with a rebuttal, however. "The Joker didn't take her to her father's murder room where she got stabbed and had to break her own thumb to get free from her cuffs."

"She has been gassed by the Scarecrow." Multiple times, Malcolm added silently. "She left a charity ball a few years ago with him to keep him from gassing those in attendance."

"Raya trusted her team would not only stop him from gassing those people but also there to help her get free of him." Malcolm was forced to concede she had a point there. There was an extraordinary amount of trust among the members of the Batfamily. Even when they were angry at each other they were there to protect and defend each other. "Raya also trusts in herself, Mal. The greatest lesson Batman taught her was she doesn't need anyone to save her. She can save herself."

"I trust in myself," he said. "To much Gil would say."

"You trust in your ability to profile someone," Sorcha agreed with a nod. "You also trust in your ability to talk a suspect out of causing you or others harm. Physical confrontations is where you struggle, though. You don't fight when it is you under attack."

Again, Malcolm found himself forced to concede. He didn't fight unless he was protecting someone. He feared losing control, going one step too far, killing someone.

" _What you, uh, fear, my boy, is killing someone and finding out it's the ultimate thrill."_

Malcolm didn't acknowledge his father's words despite the truth in them. He asked instead, "Was Dick able to help you with your dream?"

"He helped me make sense of it, yes." She lifted her mug but didn't take a sip. "He mentioned you had a dream similar to mine after you started at Gotham Academy."

Malcolm had forgotten about that dream. Most of his memories from his time in Gotham were happy ones. Gotham Academy had been the only other school he attended where he hadn't been singled out for being the son of The Surgeon. The majority of those who attended the prestigious private school simply considered him as one of their own. His blood was as blue as theirs, his pedigree as pure. Plus, he lived with Bruce Wayne. Was friends with both of his sons, his female ward, and her cousin, Barbara. Their friendship and support garnered him the acceptance he hadn't achieved in places like Remington.

Not that Malcolm didn't encounter bullies while attending Gotham Academy. He just didn't suffer in silence. He had people there who supported, defended, and comforted him. _The same people coming to my aide now against a different sort of bully._

One who didn't simply have a group of peers to aide him in his attack. No, Endicott had an entire cabal of faceless individuals with power, money, and a retinue of undead assassins to help him achieve his end goal.

"My dream wasn't about thousands of Talons descending on New York."

"He didn't share what the dream was about. Just said you had one that was similar." Soft tweeting came from Sunshine. Sorcha handed her mug to Malcolm before getting up and walking over to where her travel cage sat on top of his bookshelf. "Okay, pretty baby, we'll let you out to stretch your wings."

"Do you think letting her out with Krypto here is a good idea?" Sunshine chirped from her cage as if to say she had no problem with it. Not that Malcolm expected his little budgie to think otherwise. _She proved how fearless she was with the way she attacked Tammy Lynn._

Something which continued to amaze Malcolm all these weeks later. He would've expected such an attack from Krypto instead of a parakeet. Sunshine became an eagle, zipping through the air with determination and devotion, attacking with her talons and beak, beating at Tammy Lynn's face with her wings. Never once concerned for her own safety and well-being, ignoring him when he told her to fly away, chirping her indignation as she continued her assault.

"Pretty sure Krypto has been around cats, bats, and birds his whole life."

Malcolm swallowed a laugh along with his mouthful of tea. "You left out Supermen."

"Implied under birds."

"Pretty sure Superman would not agree with that analogy."

"He flies so he's a bird." Sorcha opened the cage door to let Sunshine hop out onto her hand. "Here we go, pretty baby."

Happy chirping came from Sunshine. Snoring, on the other hand, came from the dog asleep on the floor. Malcolm sent Krypto a wry look. "I see I worried for nothing."

"You typically do."

He ignored that. "Do you know if Raya got results from the samples?"

"They came back just as I was heading back here."

"And?"

"And they prove what we knew all along: the blood on Eddie isn't yours. It wasn't even blood from what Raya said."

Malcolm frowned. "Fake blood?"

"Raya called it theatrical blood." Sorcha walked back to the bed. "Perfect base to create a sample to frame someone with."

"Will that be enough to stop the grand jury from indicting me on murder charges?"

"Proving the blood was fabricated should be enough to stop a grand jury." She settled on the bed beside him and let Sunshine hop down onto his knee. "However, Raya is erring on the side of caution and speaking with someone she knows about representing you should they indict you."

"My mother has..."

"Hired a retinue of attorney's who have never dealt with an organization like the Court of Owls or a man as ruthless and vindictive as Endicott."

_She_ _has_ _a point_ , Malcolm realized as he ran a finger across the top of Sunshine's head. His mother's attorneys were not criminal attorneys. Most of them never defended a client suspected of murder. The sort of attorney he needed should this end up going forward was someone like Sterling. Only, he was dead. Possibly murdered by the man he worked for to keep him from talking.

"Who is Raya talking with about taking over as my defense attorney?"

"Harvey Dent."

The air whooshed out of Malcolm. A roaring filled his ears. His blood pumped. Stomach twisted. _Harvey Dent,_ he thought, mind going numb. The former district attorney who became one of Gotham's criminal kingpins after acid was splashed into his face, disfiguring him.

Harvey Dent, the proclaimed _White Knight._

Gotham heralded him as _Apollo_.

Until his psyche fractured and he took the law into his own hands, acting as judge, jury, and executioner.

"Harvey Dent?" Tea sloshed out of his mug onto his spasming hand. He pushed the button down to seal it before splashing any on Sunshine. "She's asking _Harvey Dent_ to represent me?"

"Can you think of anyone else who won't be afraid of taking on Endicott or the Court of Owls?"

"Dent's psyche..."

Was worse than his.

Way worse.

"Raya assured me Dent has been completely cured of his secondary personality and all homicidal tendencies."

That only brought Malcolm mild comfort. His father appeared genial and non.-homicidal until something caused the monster to surface. "This is dangerous, Sorch."

"Yeah?" Sorcha reached over to rub Sunshine's neck. "And? Am I supposed to run away and hide because things have gotten dangerous?" She shook her head. "I'm not. Neither is anyone else. We're all in. No matter what happens, we're all in. We'll take Endicott and the Court down together."

"He killed Eve because she got too close to figuring out what he's involved in." He lifted his eyes to hers. "You have your father's files. That makes you the most dangerous person to him now."

"Yeah, well, I'm not Eve. I don't rush into situations recklessly." She slanted a look at him. "Unlike you."

Malcolm had the sense to look mildly abashed. "I don't think about me in situations like that."

"Obviously."

"Sarcasm isn't necessary."

"I haven't slept much in over forty-eight hours," she retorted. "That I'm capable of sarcasm is amazing to me at this point."

Sunshine chirped and nibbled at his finger. "She wants her morning treat."

"I'll get it." Sorcha swung her feet to the floor. "I'm better when I'm moving. Helps me think."

"Keeps you awake."

"Sleep issues," she called over her shoulder as she headed for the door. "Remember?"

"I have sleep issues," he replied as Sunshine flapped her wings and twittered happily. "You just have picked up bad habits."

"Yeah." She sent a teasing smile over her shoulder. "Got them all from you."

Malcolm wisely choose to ignore that.


End file.
